“She didn’t want it without you,” his housekeeper said quietly. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.”
He’d felt oddly vulnerable. “I’m the one who ended it.”
“I know.” The white-haired woman had given him a sad smile. “You hated for her to love you. How could she, when you can’t love yourself?”
Hearing those awful, true words, Leonidas had fled.
He could never go back to that house or see Mrs. Berry again. Never, ever. He’d pay her off, put the house on the market—
“Ah. I was afraid of this,” the lawyer said with a sudden sigh. Turning, he sat down behind his huge desk, and indicated the opposite chair. “Don’t worry, Mr. Niarxos. We can soon get you free.”
Still standing, Leonidas frowned at him. “Free?”
Edgar Ross said gently, “It’s all over town you’ve been living in a suite at the Four Seasons. But don’t worry.” He shook his head. “We have your prenup. Divorce won’t be hard, as long as Mrs. Niarxos doesn’t intend to fight it.”
No, he thought dully. Daisy had already fought as hard as she could for their marriage. She would not fight anymore. Not now he’d made it clear there was no hope.
He’d lost her. Lost? He’d pushed her out of his life. Forever.
He looked up dully. In place of a loving, beautiful, kindhearted wife, he had a painting. Love with Birds.
“Sir?” Ross again indicated the leather chair.
Leonidas stared at it. All he had to do was sit, and he’d soon get his divorce. His marriage would be declared officially dead. He’d lose Daisy forever, and their child, too. Just as he’d wanted.
He could take the painting to join the rest of his expensive possessions, back at his empty house in the West Village, or any of his other empty houses around the world. Instead of love and legacy, instead of a family, he’d have the painting.
You hated for her to love you. How could she, when you can’t love yourself?
Leonidas had never been worthy of Daisy’s love. She’d called him wonderful. She’d called him perfect. He was neither of those things. No wonder he was scared to love her. Because the moment he did—
The moment he did, she’d see the truth, and he would lose her.
But he’d lost her anyway.
The thought made his eyes go wide. He’d sent her away because he was terrified of ever feeling that hollowness again in his heart, of wanting someone’s love and not getting it.
But he loved Daisy anyway.
With a gasp, Leonidas stared out the window. A reflected beam from another skyscraper’s windows blinded him with sharp light.
He loved her.
He was totally and completely in love with his wife. And he had been, from the moment he’d married her. No, before. From the moment he’d kissed her. From the moment she’d first smiled at him in the diner, her face so warm and kind, so beautiful and real in her waitress uniform—
Nice suit. Headed to court? Unpaid parking tickets? You poor guy. Coffee’s on me.
Daisy always saw the best in everyone. Including him.
Leonidas looked again at the Picasso. The painting was not love. It could never fill his heart.
Only he could do that.
All these years, he’d blamed his parents for his inability to love anyone, including himself. And maybe it was true.
But sooner or later, a man had to choose. Would he bury himself in grief and blame, and die choking on the dirt? Or would he reach up his hands, struggle to pull himself up and out of the early grave, to breathe sunlight and fresh air?
Leonidas chose life.