Page 102

I'm glad to see her. She is a perfect distraction right now. Gabe left early for… whatever mob bosses do, and Mom hasn't even woken up yet. She never gets up before ten.

"I was just in the middle of deep self-loathing and sinking into a dark pit of guilt, so no, you're not disturbing me in the least," I tell her and walk towards her, unsure if I want to shake her hand or what.

She doesn't hesitate. She crosses the room and pulls me into a hug. A real one. Tight. Grounding. Warm. And God, I didn't know how much I needed that.

My arms come up around her automatically, and for a second, I just… let myself have it. Let myself be held without expectation. Without judgment. Without needing to be anything.

When she pulls back, she studies my face like she already knows more than I've said.

"I'm glad I came, then," she says softly.

Up close, recognition clicks. "You're—" I squint slightly. "Wait. I know you."

Her mouth curves faintly. Not amused. More like… resigned. "Yeah. You probably do."

It hits me all at once. "Jenna Whitford," I breathe. "Senator Kingsley's daughter."

And then, just as fast, my brow furrows. "Carter Whitford's wife."

Or… widow, I suddenly remember as a headline pops into my head. I remember flashes. News clips. Perfect photos. The golden couple. The tragedy. The sympathy wave. Then the loathing for getting remarried so quickly. I never paid much attention. Why would I? Her world was galaxies away from mine.

But now, standing here? It suddenly doesn't feel so distant. Not at all. Because… we're both widows.

"I saw… some of it," I admit awkwardly. "In the news. I didn't really follow it."

Her husband and son had been taken. Now I feel like a terrible person for not paying more attention to it. God, what she must have gone through.

"You didn't miss much," she shrugs, but I catch a small note of… I can't quite put my finger on it.

She doesn't give me time to puzzle about it too much, because she asks, "You okay?"

I let out a short laugh. "Define okay."

She tilts her head, and there is something in her eyes. "Try me."

It's not a challenge. More like commiseration.

I invite her into the kitchen area, "Coffee?"

"Sounds great," she nods, taking a chair on one of the barstools by the counter.

It's a weird feeling being here in Gabe's kitchen, playing hostess, but strangely, also kind of normal. I program the machine for two cups, and it starts grinding the beans while I go in search of sugar and creamer. Gabe was right, I do require an ungodly amount of creamer and sugar. So does Jenna apparently, as between the two of us, we almost empty the entire creamer bottle.

"I'm so sorry you lost your husband." My words seem so weak, so hypocritical, because I have no idea what she must have gone through.

She waves me off. "Don't be. Our marriage wasn't at all what it looked like."

Her tone, the way she holds herself, reopens a wound in me. One I haven't told anybody about yet, one that's nearly killing me. "I was going to leave Pete that day…" I confess.

I don't know why. But Jenna feels like someone I could trust. Her marriage to a mob boss should be a big fat red flag, but it's the contrary. Or maybe I just need to finally let it out. Confess my sins, so to speak.

She nods as if that explained everything. "Good for you. I wish I had had the courage to do so before it all went to shit."

Her bluntness takes me by surprise, but it's also refreshing. The dam breaks. "Am I a terrible person?" Tears fill my eyes, and I wave my hand, "I'm sorry. You don't know me, and here I am bawling and?—"

"I watched my husband die, and I was glad for it. Massimo and I got engaged only a few hours later."

If she had told me this a few days ago, I would have been horrified. Now… I'm not. Not really. Because suddenly, the world doesn't feel so clean-cut anymore. Not right and wrong. Not good and bad. There are… layers. Shades. So many shades. And every single one of them has a story behind it. A reason.A moment that pushed someone from one side to the other. Jenna's confession doesn't repel me.