by Lila Monroe
An assistant swings by the table and leans in to murmur something in Luke’s ear. He straightens. “We’re up next.”
“What is this award again?” I ask, realizing we’re already halfway through the ceremony.
“Heartthrob of the Year,” Stella replies, looking amused.
“Ha!” I snort. “They clearly haven’t seen you after a twelve-hour video game binge.”
“Hush, you.” Luke grins and smooths back his hair. “The people will have their say. Democracy at its best.”
“Oh boy,” Stella grins. “I’ll need to have him do laundry for a week, get that ego down to size.”
“You’ve never complained about my size before,” Luke cracks back. Stella rolls her eyes, but leans in for a kiss.
I drink more champagne.
They met through Olivia and her Agency, too, trying to turn around Luke’s bad-boy reputation, but their fake love story has had a very happy ending. Luke’s publicity offensive must be working out great, because sure enough, when the winner is revealed, it’s his name up on the massive screens.
Stella hoots with laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“O ye of little faith,” Luke grins. He rises from his seat and saunters up to the stage to accept the award.
“I want to thank the woman who’s turned my life around,” he says, his face projected twenty feet high. The women around us all swoon in their seats. “Stella, baby, you’ve showed me what love really means, and every day with you is the best.”
“He’s such a sap,” Stella murmurs to me, but I can see she’s starry-eyed as well.
Typical.
Just when I need to forget about love, it’s staring me in the face at every turn.
I drain my glass. “I’m going to leave you lovebirds to it,” I tell her, getting to my feet.
Stella looks stricken. “No, Fitz, wait! I’m sorry. We’ll tone it down.”
“There’s no need,” I reassure her. “Someone should be enjoying the pleasures of true love tonight. And it’s certainly not going to be me. I’ll catch up with you guys back in New York.”
I head back to the hotel. The same hotel where Becca and I were staying. Just call me a glutton for punishment. I’ve even refused to let the maids in to change the sheets, because sometimes, late at night, I can still smell the scent of her perfume in the bed.
Or maybe I’m just imagining things. All I know is I’ve never felt this broken up over a breakup before. Usually, I don’t pause for breath. And I certainly don’t wallow in misery, going over everything I would do over, given half a chance.
But Becca was different.
I was a different man when I was with her.
She saw something in me that nobody else did. Something I didn’t allow anyone to see. The part of me that wanted to do better, be somebody worthwhile. The part that wondered if acting like I didn’t care was the easy way out.
She called me a coward.
Maybe she was right.
I’m still running behind on the deadline for my next book, so I sit and stare at the blank laptop screen for a while. I planned to add an American sidekick to the Alex Chase adventures, a partner in crime to spice up his life, the way Becca suggested, but I can’t bring myself to immortalize her on the page. I have a rule never to write about the people in my life, and inventing a character for her now feels too final. Like she really is in the past.
Even though I know it’s true.
After all, who would blame her? I ruined everything for her, wrecked the inheritance after she’d gone through extraordinary lengths to protect her friends and neighbors. I was careless, and distracted, and fucked everything up. I thought the whole fake marriage charade was just another excuse for a wild—and sexy—adventure. But she had everything on the line.
And I took that away from her and left her with nothing.
Is it any wonder she ended things? I wouldn’t be surprised if she never wanted to see me again. And I wouldn’t blame her, either.
I’ve been staring at the empty page for an hour when there’s a knock at the door. I brace myself for Luke and Stella, ready to launch a second round of “let’s cheer up Fitz,” but it’s somebody else on the other side of the door. Someone I definitely didn’t expect to see here.
“Father.” I look at him, surprised. “Is something wrong? Is Mum OK?”
“She’s fine.” My father strips off his jacket and folds it over one arm. He looks seriously uncomfortable. “Well, are you going to invite me in, or are you planning on leaving me in the hall like a common butler?”
My dad, charming as ever.
“Sure. Come in.” I leave the door open behind me as I go back inside, heading straight for the drinks cart. A miniature bottle of booze is definitely not going to cut it tonight. It’s a good thing I had the concierge deliver me some good whiskey. And an even better thing that there’s still enough left for one large glass.
I pour and take a large gulp before turning back to my father. He’s looking around the suite with distaste.
“A rather large room for just one person,” he remarks. “Just remember not to come running back to the family trust once you’ve blown whatever monies you’ve got. Poker winnings won’t keep you in five-star hotels for long.”
“Thanks for the advice, Dad.” I drawl. “I won’t offer you dinner then, since you’re so concerned with my finances.”
I don’t mention that the advance on my last book could buy out the entire hotel for a year. Or that the money Hollywood is offering for my movie rights puts the Fitzgerald family trust to shame.
“I came to talk to you about that woman.” My father turns back to me, and it takes a moment to figure who he’s talking about.
“You mean my wife?” I ask, feeling a stab of guilt at the mention of her.
“That’s one way of describing her, certainly.” He purses his lips. “I came to ask you again to please consider the post-nuptial agreement. You may not have a penny to protect, but for God’s sake, think of the family—”
“You don’t need to worry,” I cut him off, angry. “Becca isn’t like that.”
“Don’t be a fool, boy!” he thunders back. “She could come after a share of the business, or worse still, the estate. Not everyone can waltz through life not caring about consequences. Some of us have worked to build something, to provide for our families, and to see all that snatched away by some two-bit, god-digging—”
I lunge for him. “You better watch your next words very carefully,” I bite out, backing him up against the wall. “If you ever, ever want to see me again.”
My father looks shocked. He coughs, clearing his throat. “I, uh, I’m just saying, it’s not just your life you could be ruining here.”
The irony of his words hits hard. He’s right. I didn’t just wreck my own life, I fucked up Becca’s too.
Just like that, the fight goes out of me. “You don’t have to worry about her anymore,” I admit, taking another gulp of whiskey. “You’ll be pleased to know it’s over. She’s already gone.”
“And the terms of the divorce?” he demands immediately. Because God forbid he ask me how I feel about the whole damn mess.
“She won’t ask for anything.”
“But—”
“No, Dad. She won’t. Not everyone is out for what they can get,” I tell him, numb. “Some people only care about making a difference.”
My father exhales. “Well, that’s a relief. I’m sure it’s for the best,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Perhaps now you’ll think about taking things seriously. Settling down and getting your head screwed on straight. You can’t spend your life chasing skirt and frittering away money, you know. Sooner or later, you need to find a purpose. Think of your responsibilities.”
I could recite this song by heart. I must have heard it a thousand times before. Shape up, Fitz. Get your act together, Fitz. Stop being such a useless wastrel, Fitz.
Usually, I just drink my drink and b
ite my tongue. Let him get it out of his system and assume I’m just a good-for-nothing layabout, and go back to my real life, the life they have no business knowing about.
But tonight, I just remember what Becca told me. That I was taking the easy way out, hiding my literary career from everyone. Keeping my books anonymous, so I didn’t have to stand up for them. Claim them. Take the credit—or the criticism either.
Letting people presume the worst, so they never once expected the best from me.
Becca saw through that bullshit. Somehow, she knew I was capable of more. She celebrated my success—and expected me to follow through and be a man of my word.
I may have let her down, but that doesn’t mean I have to go back to the way things used to be.
Maybe I can be the man she saw in me, after all.
Starting with the truth.
“. . . How will you expect to support a family with all your carrying on . . . ?
My father is still playing Disappointment: The Greatest Hits, so I go to the bureau and find a stack of books. The new British paperback editions of the Alex Chase books that my publisher messengered over to me yesterday.
“Here,” I interrupt him mid-lecture, and hold out the books. “Something for you and Mum. You like my writing, don’t you?”
He stops, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve seen the books at the house. They’re mine. I’m Alex Chase.”
It’s the moment I’ve idly imagined for years now, and I have to admit, the shocked expression on his face is almost worth it.
“That’s impossible,” my father says brusquely.
I shrug. “This suite costs a thousand dollars a night,” I reply, casual. “Where did you really think I’ve been making my money all this time? You know I can’t win a hand of poker to save my life. You always said my overactive imagination would be the death of me,” I add. “Turns out, it’s been rather useful.”
He looks at the books, then me, and back again. “You’re a writer . . .” he mutters slowly.
“A pretty successful one,” I tell him. “At least, that’s what my royalty statements say.”
For the first time in my life, my father is speechless.
“I . . .” he coughs. “Well, I . . .”
I don’t want to give him time to find something else wrong with me, so I gently guide him to the door. “I better get back to work,” I explain, pushing him into the hallway. “Deadlines. But send my love to Mum.”
I shut the door in his face.
And just like that, it’s done. My secret is out. And I feel . . .
Relieved. Energized. Like it’s the start of a new chapter for me. Taking responsibility for my life, making better choices. Being the better man.
At least for a split second, until I remember Becca, and it all comes crashing down again. Because what use is any of this without her? She’s the one, the only woman who matters.
I need to make it right.
The only question is: am I too late?
19
Becca
“. . . If you could just take a look, I swear, it’s gotten bigger—”
“Mr. Myers, Jeff, please!” I yelp, averting my gaze as he starts undoing his belt. “I’m not a doctor! I can’t examine your warts!”
“But I’m really worried—”
“There’s an urgent care right down the street! Or come in on Tuesday, during clinic hours.” I bolt to my feet and hustle him to the door. “I can fix the paperwork. Whatever you need. Just don’t drop your trousers in the middle of my office!”
“Oh. Well, OK, but if it turns out to be something—”
“You’ll be even gladder you saw a real doctor,” I finish firmly, before steering him out.
Phew.
I go collapse back behind the safety of my desk. The sad part is, examining warts—and where, exactly, they’re located—is not even the worst part of my Monday morning. Nope, that honor goes to when Poppy texted me a 911 with a website link, and I found Fitz’s face splashed across all my favorite gossip sites.
Alex Chase revealed!
10 Things to Know about Superstar Author Arthur Fitzgerald!
The Hottest Man in Books!
His secret is out.
Now that I have a moment to myself, I can’t resist pulling up the pages again. I scan them for clues, wondering how it happened. Did he whisper it to some woman during pillow talk? Did it happen by mistake?
There’s a new story up, so I click through. There he is, staring back at me from the screen, looking way too handsome for words.
My secret literary life, the headline reads. I brace myself and read on.
International playboy Arthur Fitzgerald shocked the world today when he announced that he’s the writer behind the bestselling Alex Chase novels. After selling millions of copies, he’s stepping out from the shadows and coming clean about his epic secret. “It’s time,” he explains as we catch up for coffee in his stunning New York penthouse. “I’ve been hiding behind my anonymity for too long. I’m ready to take responsibility for my career. Maybe I’ll make a very public spectacle of myself,” he adds with his trademark charming smile, “but that’s the risk I’m willing to take. I don’t want to take the easy way out anymore.”
I sit back, my head spinning.
This was his decision?
And the part about not taking the easy way out . . . Is that because of me? Or am I delusional, thinking I had any part in this? After all, he has a whole team of professionals advising him—and now, the world at his feet as the very public bestselling author.
I miss him.
I miss him bad.
Now that the shock and betrayal of it all has faded a little, and I’ve had a chance to think, I can’t help wondering if I’m the one who really messed it up this time. Sure, he gave the game away to Brett about our fake marriage, but I didn’t have to blow up at him like that. It was an honest mistake that I somehow turned into the end of our relationship.
Maybe we could have figured something out.
Maybe the end of the pretense could have let us move on and start over together—for real this time.
Instead, I went nuclear on him. I thought a man like that couldn’t possibly be interested in a woman like me, but that was just insecurity talking. What happened with my ex choosing someone else over me, the way everyone seemed so shocked I could land a guy like Fitz. When I really think about it, Fitz never was the one who made me feel like we didn’t belong together. No, that was the voice in my own head talking—and petty, jealous bitches who probably were just mad that I was the one on his arm.
But perhaps we just weren’t meant to be. After all, I walked away—but he let me. He could have come after me. He could have called. Instead, it’s been a couple of weeks now, and . . . nothing.
It takes two to fall in love. Otherwise, you just hit the ground.
I finish up at the office and head home—via the Agency offices on the Upper East Side. Olivia left me a message asking me to drop by, and I can only imagine what she has to say to me. Probably a healthy dose of “I told you so,” with a side helping of “remember your non-disclosure agreement, waiving all right to sue.”
The company is located in an old townhouse, and when I climb the sweeping staircase, I find the door open and someone crawling on the floor.
“Hello?” I ask, tapping at the door.
The person on the carpet startles and bumps her head on the underside of the coffee table. “Oww!” she yelps, before crawling out. It’s a curvy redhead with black spectacles and a friendly smile. “Sorry, I dropped my bug.”
“Your insect?” I blink.
She laughs. “No, my bug. A listening device. I’m trying out this new model, just shipped in from Japan. Look, you could hide this anywhere and nobody would see.”
The woman holds out what looks like a tiny piece of thread.
“Wow. That is small. And you’d be hiding it because . . .”
�
�Well, if I told you that, I’d have to kill you.” She winks. “Just kidding! I’m Alice, by the way. I work as an investigator for the Agency. Olivia should be right out.”
“Oh,” I exhale in relief. “OK.”
I watch as she tucks the bug away in a tech-looking briefcase. Then her phone rings, and her face lights up when she sees the display.
“Hey, baby.” Her voice drops, and she turns away to answer, giggling softly.
Great. Everyone in the world is in love, except me.
Olivia emerges from her office, looking elegant as ever in a chic pantsuit. “Rebecca, good to see you. I wish it were under better circumstances.”
She beckons me in, and I follow her into the room. I look around. It’s hard to believe I was sitting in this exact—plush, luxurious—chair just a couple of months ago, explaining my problem and practically begging her to find me a husband.
“I’m so sorry how things turned out.” She looks at me sympathetically. “I heard you lost Waverly, after all.”
I give a helpless shrug. “It’s not your fault. You held up your end of the bargain—in a way.”
“But still. If you need referrals to a lawyer, or if there’s anything I can do . . .”
I shake my head. “Thank you, but all I want to do is wrap things up and put this whole mess behind me.”
“Of course.” Olivia nods. “Do you have a new place lined up?”
“Kind of,” I sigh. “I have friends I can crash with while I hunt for a new apartment.”
I don’t add that on my budget, I’m looking at splitting with five roommates in a sixth-floor walkup somewhere in the Outer Boroughs.
Goodbye spacious one-bedroom down the hall from my friends. Hello, trekking to the launderette ten blocks away and adding an extra hour to my daily commute. Each way.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll find something,” Olivia says with an encouraging smile. “These things have a way of working themselves out in the end.”
“Here’s hoping,” I agree, not wanting to drag her down.
“Anyway, I have the divorce papers we discussed,” she continues, bringing out a brown manila envelope.