She wasn’t married to him. She wasn’t his wife. She couldn’t be.

Her thoughts raced here, there, scattering in a thousand directions as she drove to Ben’s preschool to pick him up.

If she were really still Kahlil’s wife, then Kahlil would have a legal right to see Ben. To take Ben.

Making dinner that night Bryn battled to hide her worry from Ben. The cheerful chatter she usually enjoyed grated on her and she was relieved when he finally went to bed and she had some quiet to think.

She paced the small living room, chewing on her thumbnail. The only way she could protect Ben from danger was to keep him a secret, and she didn’t know how she’d managed to hide Ben, but she had to. She just had to.

Bryn took the next day off from work and spent it making phone calls—to the courthouse, to lawyers, to anyone who might be able to help her sort out the facts regarding her divorce. With horror she heard one clerk after another explain that paperwork was indeed missing and that the divorce suit had been dropped over a year ago.

Then Kahlil was right. The marriage, their marriage, still existed, under Texas law.

It took her another two days to accept the terrible truth. Two days of a churning stomach, and two awful, endless, sleepless nights when she cursed herself for not being on top of details, for failing to ensure the divorce was finalized. This was her fault, her fault entirely.

Finally, heart aching, Bryn called Stan and broke the news. He immediately drove over and they talked for hours but in the end the facts remained the same and there was nothing they could do but postpone the wedding. Stan behaved like a true gentleman, offering no reproaches, just promising his full support.

But after he left, and the house was silent again, Bryn knew she had one last painful phone call to make.

She called the Four Seasons Hotel and was put through to Kahlil’s presidential suite. If he sounded surprised to hear from her he gave no indication. But Bryn wasn’t about to chitchat. Her voice cool, her tone formal, she suggested they meet the following night for dinner and named a popular Dallas restaurant.

Kahlil offered to send a car, she refused. She’d drive there, she told him, drive home and that would be the last time she’d see him again.

But dinner the next evening didn’t start off the way she’d planned. First her car wouldn’t start, and then instead of dropping Ben off at the baby-sitter’s house, she had to call and ask the sitter to come for Ben. Finally she was forced to phone Kahlil and leave word at the restaurant that she’d be late due to car difficulties. Before the taxi arrived, a black limousine pulled up in front of her house. Kahlil. She knew it without a glimpse of him, knew it without a word from him. She felt him. Felt his strength, his anger, his conviction.

From the living-room window she saw him step out of the back and stand next to the limousine’s open door. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply waited, and in his aggressive stance she saw ownership. He was stating his belief, that she was his, and only his.

Kahlil wasn’t going to go away. He wasn’t going to leave her alone.

The black limousine sailed on and off the freeway, winding through traffic but Bryn couldn’t concentrate on anything. She heard Kahlil say he’d changed their dinner reservation to another restaurant, a quieter one, more conducive to conversation. He said something about taking care of unfinished business but she couldn’t think about that, couldn’t possibly consider anything between them unfinished.