My Mother's Husband

Chapter 1

My mother had been invited to the most important party of the summer.

I had not.

Which was probably why I was having a better time.

“Tell me again why we’re here,” Maya said.

I looked at her over the rim of my glass. “Because you said I needed to get out more.”

“I said you needed a social life.”

“This is a social event.”

“You’re standing in the corner.”

“I’m socializing with the corner.”

Camille laughed. Maya did not. She wore the expression of someone who regretted being friends with me but was too invested to leave.

“Zoey. Your mother is going to find out.”

I glanced across the ballroom. Hundreds of people moved through the space like they owned it—most of them did. My mother belonged here. I still wasn’t sure I did.

“She’s in Paris,” I said.

“London.”

“Same continent.”

“Not even close.”

“Still far enough that she can’t yell at me.”

Maya sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

The invitation had arrived weeks ago, embossed and heavy, addressed to Lilith Maroone and guest. She was supposed to attend with some investor whose name I’d forgotten five minutes after she mentioned him. Then two days before the event, Paris—or London, or Singapore—happened. With my mother it was usually difficult to keep track.

She had called from an airport lounge that morning, apologizing in the distracted way she had perfected over the years.

I’m sorry, sweetheart. I promise I’ll make it up to you.

She always promised that.

I always believed her.

That was the embarrassing part.

So when Maya suggested we come in her place, I said yes. Not because I wanted to make a point. Not because I was angry. And definitely not because I wanted to meet anyone. I just wanted one night where being Lilith Maroone’s daughter wasn’t the most interesting thing about me.

“Speaking of interesting,” Camille murmured.

I followed her gaze.

A man had just stepped onto the terrace. Dark jacket, open collar, a watch that probably cost more than my car. He didn’t scan the room the way everyone else did. He simply stood there, as if the party had been arranged around him and he hadn’t noticed.

Then his eyes found mine.

I looked away first—not because I was nervous, but because I had enough self-respect to know what happened when you held a stranger’s gaze too long at a party like this.

Maya leaned in. “You know he saw you.”

“I wasn’t looking at him.”

“You were absolutely looking at him.”

Camille smiled. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“It isn’t.”

She took my empty glass. “You’re going to talk to him.”

“No.”

We moved to the bar instead. I recognized a few faces—people who knew my mother, people who still asked how school was going even though I’d graduated years ago. One woman stopped me, kissed the air beside my cheek, and told me my mother must be thrilled I was there. I nearly laughed.

When I finally looked back toward the terrace, he was gone.

That disappointed me more than it should have.

I turned away from Maya and Camille and walked straight into him.

My glass tipped. One of his hands caught it before it hit the floor. The other caught my elbow.

“Careful.”

Up close he was worse. Darker eyes than I’d realized, and a calm that felt deliberate, almost watchful.

I straightened. “I had it.”

“I noticed.”

“You caught it.”

“I did.”

“So technically you had it.”

His mouth curved. “Fair.”

I pulled my arm gently free. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A short pause settled between us—not awkward, just long enough to make it clear neither of us was in a hurry to end the conversation.

“I’m Flynn,” he said. Just Flynn. No last name.

“Zoey.”

He repeated it once, quietly, like he was testing the shape of it. Something flickered behind his eyes—recognition, or the near edge of it—but it was gone before I could name it.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“I was. Before you caught my glass.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

I smiled despite myself. “You seem very concerned about my evening.”

“Maybe I am.”

Most men at these events asked about my mother within the first minute. Flynn didn’t. He didn’t ask who I was related to. He didn’t ask what I did. He just watched me like I was the only interesting thing in the room. Yet there was something in the way he looked at me—an attention that felt slightly too precise, as if he had already filed me under a category I didn’t know existed.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“A little of everything.”

“That sounds suspicious.”

“It probably is. I work with investments.”

“Better. Your turn.”

I hesitated. Something about him made me want the real answer instead of the polished one. “I’m figuring it out.”

He studied me. “That’s an answer.”

“You’re not going to ask what that means?”

“No. If you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

That caught me off guard. I looked at him for a second, then smiled. “Maybe I like you.”

“That’s fast.”

“I said maybe.”

“Good. I’d hate to think I’d already made such a strong impression.”

The music shifted into something slower. People drifted toward the dance floor. Flynn glanced at me.

“Dance?”

I should have said no. I barely knew him.

Instead I set my glass down. “Okay.”

His hand settled lightly against mine. Nothing dramatic happened—no lightning, no sudden certainty that this man was going to change my life. Just warmth. A song. His hand in mine. And the strange realization that I hadn’t thought about my mother in several minutes.

By the time the song ended we were still standing close.

“You’re staring,” I said.

“So are you.”

“I was waiting to see if you’d notice.”

His smile came slowly. “I noticed.”

There are decisions you make because you want something, and decisions you make because, in the moment, you can’t see any reason not to. That night I couldn’t see one.

When Flynn leaned closer and asked quietly, “Do you want to get out of here?”

I said yes.

The car ride was quiet. City lights slid across his face in intervals. I kept waiting for the usual awkward small talk that always filled the space between a party and a hotel room, but it never came. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, and every time I glanced over I found him already looking at me.

The suite was higher than I expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows, low lighting, a bed that looked expensive and untouched. The door shut behind us with a soft, final click.

For a second neither of us moved.

Then Flynn stepped in, closed the remaining distance, and cupped the side of my face. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth. He kissed me like he’d already decided how this was going to go and was simply waiting for me to catch up. Slow at first. Then deeper. I felt the shift in his breathing, the controlled pull of his hand at the small of my back drawing me against him.

My back met the wall. His mouth moved to my jaw, then lower, open and warm against the side of my throat. I tipped my head without thinking. His teeth scraped lightly. A sound left me that I didn’t recognize.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. Dark eyes. Completely calm.

“Still yes?”

I nodded.

He took his time undressing me. Not teasing—just thorough. Jacket first. Then the zipper of my dress, drawn down so slowly I felt every inch of air against my skin. The dress pooled at my feet. His hands mapped the newly bare places like he was committing them to memory. When he finally lifted me, my legs went around his waist without being asked.

The bed was cool against my back. He followed me down, still mostly dressed, and the contrast of his clothes against my bare skin made everything sharper. I reached for his shirt. He caught my wrists, pinned them lightly above my head with one hand, and looked at me for a long second.

“I want to take my time with you.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.

He released my wrists only long enough to strip the rest of his clothes. Then he was back, heavier, warmer, the hard length of him pressed against my thigh. I arched without meaning to. He settled between my legs, one hand sliding under my knee to open me further, and then he pushed in—slow, deliberate, all the way to the hilt in one continuous stroke that forced the air from my lungs.

I felt every inch.

The stretch.

The heat.

The way he held still once he was fully inside me, giving me a second to adjust while his forehead rested against mine.

Then he started to move.

Deep. Measured. The kind of rhythm that made it impossible to hide anything. Every time I tried to meet him faster he slowed, forced me to feel the full drag of him leaving and the thick press of him returning. His hand stayed under my knee, keeping me open. The other braced beside my head so he could watch my face.

I came the first time with almost no warning—tight, sharp, my nails digging into his shoulders. He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, steady and relentless, until the oversensitive edge of it made me gasp and try to twist away. He simply shifted his grip, held me still, and kept going.

“Again,” he said against my mouth, quiet, almost conversational.

I shook my head, already too close to the second one. He changed the angle, deeper, and the sound that left me was broken. His hand slid between us, two fingers finding the exact place that made my vision blur, and he stayed right there while he continued to thrust, controlled and heavy.

The second orgasm hit harder. Longer. I felt myself clench around him in waves I couldn’t stop. He groaned once—low, almost involuntary—and then his rhythm finally broke. He drove into me three more times, deep enough that I felt it in my stomach, and came with his face pressed to the side of my neck, breath harsh, body locked tight against mine.

For a long moment neither of us moved.

I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. The slight tremor in his arms as he kept his weight from crushing me. The slick heat of him still inside me.

Eventually he eased out, rolled to the side, and pulled me with him so my head rested on his shoulder. His fingers traced idle patterns along my spine. Neither of us spoke. The city hummed faintly beyond the glass.

I fell asleep to the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the scent of his skin, and the dull, pleasant ache between my legs that already felt like something I would remember.

I woke alone just after dawn.

The other side of the bed was cold. No note. No number. Only the faint scent of his cologne on the pillow and a dark bruise already forming on my hip where his fingers had held me.

I sat on the edge of the mattress for a long time, staring at the empty space, and realized I knew almost nothing about him.

Only a first name.

Flynn.

And the quiet, unwelcome certainty that I was going to remember the way he looked at me—calm, focused, completely sure—longer than I wanted to.