Regretting The Wife He Threw Away

In a place like this—a high-end restaurant—reputation is everything.

So when Irwin started wailing, it immediately drew uncomfortable glances from other diners. The manager hurried over, trying to salvage the situation. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we have other distinguished guests in the dining room. Could you please calm your child? We wouldn't want to disturb anyone's meal."

"That's a misunderstanding!" James interjected, gesturing toward Rosita, who was sitting not far away. "He's got the wrong woman-that's the kid's real mother."

The manager turned, following James's gaze to Rosita.

"Ms. Rosita, the actress?" The manager shook his head, incredulous. "Sir, please don't make jokes. The child may have come in with Ms. Rosita, but he always calls her 'Ms. Rosita.' Meanwhile, the minute he saw your friend here, he started shouting 'Mom.' Isn't it obvious who the real mother is?"

James blinked, momentarily thrown. Wait-a kid who won't call Rosita "Mom" in public? Now that was interesting.

He shot Briony a look, one eyebrow raised. "So she's brave enough to have a kid, but not to claim him? What do you think if I made a fake profile online and spilled the truth, would her whole image just collapse overnight?"

Briony glanced over at Rosita.

making it clear she had no intention of coming over

carefully crafted her image in the film industry as "America's Sweetheart," the pure, untouchable goddess. There was no way she'd let her fans know

relationship went public, her male fans had a collective meltdown- droves of them unfollowed her instantly, and she lost nearly ten million followers on Facebook. Since then, Rosita had avoided mentioning anything remotely related to romance on social

Rosita's work meant everything

her career. But life is all about choices and consequences. Rosita wanted her career and

it, the more absurd it

Rosita enough to cover for her, that was his business. But why should Briony be the one to pay for Rosita's

"Mom!"

himself at her, arms wrapped

burying his face against her stomach, his little hands clutching her shirt as if terrified she might

perfectly still, letting him hold on. In just

heart. She'd raised him for five years—she'd never once let him cry like this. But

give in.