Dumped My Cheating Husband, Married a s*x God

Chapter 15

What are the odds of having two people who saw you in your worst state in the same house?

So much for first impression.

"You two know each other?" Mrs. Vale asked, her gaze darting between me and the girl with barely contained curiosity.

The girl—who I'd thought was just a kind stranger on a rainy street—shifted her backpack higher on her shoulder, her cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of pink. "We met once," she said carefully, her eyes meeting mine with a silent plea for discretion. "A few days ago. In the city."

I nodded quickly, understanding passing between us.

"She gave me an umbrella when I needed one," I said simply, my voice steady. "I never got to thank her properly."

The girl's smile bloomed across her face, bright and genuine and so familiar it made my throat tighten. "You looked like you needed it more than I did."

"Well, this is wonderful!" Mrs. Vale clasped her hands together, clearly delighted by the connection. "Selena, this is Celia—our granddaughter. Marcus's daughter. Celia, this is Selena. Adrian's wife."

Wife. The word still felt surreal, especially coming from Mrs. Vale's lips with such natural warmth.

Celia's eyes widened even further, if that was possible. "Adrian's wife? Uncle Adrian?" She turned to stare at her uncle, who was standing slightly behind me with an expression of carefully maintained neutrality. "You got married? To her? The umbrella lady?"

"The umbrella lady," Adrian repeated, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Yes."

"When? How? You never even date!" Celia dropped her backpack onto a chair and advanced on Adrian with the fearless curiosity of someone who had known him her entire life. "Did you sweep her off her feet? Was it romantic? Tell me everything."

"It's a long story," Adrian said, which was technically true.

"One that can wait," Mrs. Vale interjected smoothly, though her eyes sparkled with the same curiosity. "Celia, go wash up. Lunch is getting cold, and I'm not reheating the lamb for anyone."

Celia groaned but obeyed, pausing only to squeeze my hand as she passed. "I'm so glad you're okay," she whispered, low enough that only I could hear. "I worried about you."

The simple kindness of it nearly undid me. A stranger, a young girl who'd given me an umbrella in the rain, had worried about me. Had thought about me after our three-minute encounter. When Alex, who'd shared my bed for five years, hadn't given me a second thought while cheating with his adopted sister.

"I'm better than okay," I whispered back, squeezing her hand in return. "Thanks to you."

She beamed and disappeared down the hallway, leaving me standing in the middle of the sitting room with a warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth.

The lunch was everything Mrs. Vale had promised and more. The lamb fell apart at the touch of a fork, the potatoes were infused with rosemary so fragrant it made my eyes water, and the chocolate torte was rich enough to make me forget every diet I'd ever attempted. Conversation flowed easily—Mr. Vale asked about my company, genuinely interested in the Solenne Collection and my design philosophy. Mrs. Vale wanted to know about my childhood, my education, my work. They didn't pry into my failed marriage, didn't ask about Alex or the divorce. They simply... accepted me.

I was laughing at something Mr. Vale said about Adrian's childhood attempt to start a business selling rocks from the garden—"He called them 'natural paperweights,' priced them at five dollars each, and actually made a profit"—when Celia returned freshly washed and took the seat beside me, chattering animatedly about her university courses—she was studying art history, she informed me, with a minor in museum curation. We discovered a shared love of Renaissance jewelry design, of the way goldsmiths in Florence had transformed metal into lace-like filigree that still influenced modern techniques.

"You have to see the collection at the Uffizi," Celia said, her eyes lighting up. "They have this Etruscan necklace from the fourth century BC that's basically the ancestor of everything Ana Lee does with minimalism."

"I've seen photos," I admitted, "but never in person."

"We'll fix that." She turned to Adrian with the easy confidence of family. "Uncle Adrian, you have to take her to Italy, show her the real beauty of design."

Adrian nodded smirking and I almost scowled at him.

It was then the youngest master of the Vale family graced us with his presence. "Sorry I'm late, everyone! The stable master needed help with Jupiter's new shoes, and you know how he gets when—" The voice cut off as its owner skidded into the dining room, nearly colliding with a sideboard. "Oh. We have a guest."

No wonder Adrian said I would see. I indeed saw. While Adrian was dark and controlled and radiated authority, Tristan was sunshine and motion and barely contained energy. He had the same sharp cheekbones and dark hair as his brother, but his eyes were lighter—a warm hazel that danced with mischief. He wore riding boots still dusty from the stables, a fitted polo shirt that showed the lean muscle of someone who spent more time outdoors than in boardrooms, and an expression of unfiltered curiosity.

"You must be the new wife," he said, not bothering with formalities. He strode forward and extended a hand that was slightly grubby with dirt. "Tristan Vale. The youngest. The best-looking. The most charming."

"Tristan," Mr. Vale warned.

"What? It's true." Tristan grinned, completely unrepentant, and I found myself smiling despite myself as I shook his hand. "So you're the mysterious woman who finally snared Adrian. Mom and Dad have been texting me all morning. I had to turn my phone off during the fitting."

"Fitting?" I asked.

"Jupiter's shoes!" Tristan's whole face lit up, and he launched into an enthusiastic explanation before anyone could stop him. "He's my horse. Thoroughbred. Sixteen hands. We're training for the Young Riders' Championship next month—it's this massive event, international competitors, prize money that could fund a small country. Jupiter and I have been working toward it for two years."

He pulled out his phone without waiting for permission and thrust it toward me. On the screen was a photo of a magnificent chestnut horse, muscles rippling beneath a glossy coat, mid-jump over an obstacle that looked impossibly high.

"That's him clearing five feet," Tristan said proudly. "Last week. We've been working on speed transitions. The course has this brutal combination—a vertical to an oxer with only three strides in between. Most riders lose time there, but Jupiter—"

"Tristan, we discussed this," Mrs. Vale said gently, but there was fondness in her voice. "No horse talk at the table until after dessert."

"But Mom—"

"After dessert."

Tristan slumped into his seat with theatrical dejection, but his eyes were still bright, still calculating, still brimming with the energy of someone who had found his passion and would let nothing stand in its way. I understood that look. I wore it myself when I talked about design.

"Tell me more about the championship," I said, ignoring Mrs. Vale's amused glance. "Where is it?"

Tristan perked up immediately. "Switzerland. The course is built into a mountain valley—absolutely stunning, but the altitude changes affect the horses differently. We've been doing altitude training, simulating the oxygen levels. Jupiter hates the mask, but—"

"Tristan."

"Right. After dessert." He mimed zipping his lips, then immediately unzipped them to add, "But you should come watch. Both of you. Adrian never comes to my events. Says horses are 'unpredictable investments.'"

He said the last phrase in a passable imitation of Adrian's deep, measured tones, and I laughed before I could stop myself. Adrian's hand found mine under the table, his thumb pressing a warning against my palm.

"We'll see," Adrian said, which was neither yes nor no.

The rest of lunch was a revelation. The Vales argued and teased and talked over each other in a way that was chaotic and warm and utterly unlike the stiff, performative dinners I'd endured with Alex's family. Mr. Vale and Tristan debated horse breeding statistics. Mrs. Vale and Emily discussed an upcoming gallery opening. And Adrian watched it all with an expression I'd never seen before. Relaxed. Content. At home in a way he never seemed in his sleek penthouse or at work.

I was so absorbed in the rhythm of it, in the easy acceptance of this family that barely knew me, that I almost missed the shift in conversation.

"You should stay the night," Mrs. Vale said, turning to us with hopeful eyes. "We have plenty of guest rooms, and I'd love to show Selena the gardens in the morning light. The roses are just beginning to bloom.

"And we could do a proper family dinner," Mr. Vale added. "With all the boys. Marcus and the twins are flying in tomorrow for a board meeting—we could make it a real occasion."

Stay the night. A real family dinner. All the brothers.

The thought was tempting in a way that terrified me. I'd expected to survive this lunch and escape back to the safety of Adrian's penthouse, back to the bubble of our strange, intense marriage. But staying? Meeting the rest of the family? Letting them pull me deeper into their orbit?

"We appreciate the offer," Adrian said, his voice smooth and final, "but we can't stay."

Mrs. Vale's face fell. "Adrian, you just got here—"

"We're leaving for Italy. Tonight."

The words dropped into the room like stones into still water.

I turned to stare at him, my fork frozen halfway to my mouth. "Tonight?"

"Tonight," Adrian confirmed, his gaze meeting mine with an intensity that made my heart stutter. "I had the jet prepared this morning. We'll land in Milan before midnight."

"But—the auction isn't for two more days," I stammered, my mind reeling. "You said we could leave early, but tonight? We haven't packed, I haven't—"

"Everything is handled." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, showing me a screen filled with confirmations. "Lily has everything arranged, and your clothes—" He gestured vaguely. "—are already on the plane."

Already on the plane.

I looked around the table, at the stunned expressions of his family, at Celia's delighted grin, at Tristan's impressed whistle. Then back at Adrian, who was watching me with the calm certainty of a man who had already decided the entire world would bend to his will.

"You're insane," I whispered.

"Probably," he agreed. "But we're going to Italy. Tonight. For our honeymoon."

Wow.