by Stella Gray
“Honey,” I croon next to his ear. “You’ve had your fun, but it’s time to stop now.”
He looks at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Time to stop what? We’re just having fun. Are you jealous?” His voice is pointed, hard and loud enough that Candy can certainly hear him.
“No.” I straighten up and cross my arms. “But you’re making a mistake.”
He grins with an amused huff. “Why do you care so much?”
I draw back and shake my head. I’ll never admit to him how I really feel. “I don’t.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Your image is the problem. You have a reputation to uphold. For DRM.”
Scoffing, he looks at Candy while he speaks. “No press here to see anything, Brooklyn.”
I can’t believe he’s being so blasé about this. “You really think messing around with an employee is a good idea? All hell will break loose if that gets out. You can’t trust just anyone.”
“That’s rich, you telling me who to trust.” He leans back in his chair and spreads his knees, beckoning the flight attendant to come over. “The thing is, Candy and I go way back. She’s definitely earned my trust.”
In one swift motion he pulls her onto his lap, his hand resting high on her thigh. She smiles, her arm around his neck as he gives me a lazy look, the glint of venom in his eyes.
“Should we tell my wife about all the fun we’ve had together? How I inducted you into the Mile-High Club? Maybe we should let her in on some of the things two people can actually do in a tiny airplane bathroom.”
Candy looks up at me, her eyes roving up and down my body. “We could always show her…” she says, and then she directs her next words to me. “Do you like to watch?”
I cross my arms tightly over my chest to hold back the rush of emotion that suddenly overtakes me. I haven’t let myself cry in days. Not when Luka went out that night in Paris. Not after he rejected me repeatedly on our honeymoon. Not when I fake smiled in all of our vacation photos. But now it’s like I can’t hold it back anymore. He wants to flaunt his sex-toy flight attendant in my face, well, there’s nothing I can do about that.
But I’ll be damned if he’s going to see me crack.
I turn away without another word, grab my bag, and slip into the back bedroom where I shut and lock the door.
Then I drop down onto the bed, and cry.
Brooklyn
Chapter 6
I barely remember getting off the plane in Chicago and into the back of the limo. After crying myself into a state of hollowed-out exhaustion in the airplane’s back bedroom, I had washed my face and curled up on top of the covers, somehow finally falling asleep despite wondering what Luka and Candy were doing together out in the flight cabin.
No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t stop imagining her on her knees, sucking him off the way I’d planned to do. She’d definitely stolen my moment and ruined all my plans. To be fair, Luka may well have derailed me himself by not cooperating—but I’ll never know for sure. And now, as I stare out the window at the view of the city passing by, my mind has even more horrible mental imagery to play over and over. Candy giving my husband a blow job in the middle of the aisle. His hand cupping her ass. Her, riding his lap in the seat, head thrown back.
The weirdest part was that when I actually fell asleep, I dreamed that Luka and I had forgiven each other. He’d come home from a long day at work with a bundle in his arms, and when I ran to meet him I realized he was smiling and holding something out toward me…
“Is that…a puppy?” I’d asked.
“What do you think?” he’d responded with a grin.
The man who despises pets had a little gray terrier in his arms. It had the cutest wiggly stub of a tail, a bow around its neck, and a spot of white fur under its chin.
“I think I love him!” I said.
Luka and I laughed and embraced each other, the dog squirming between us, wagging that stubby tail like mad and licking my face.
I woke with a start, my face still wet, and was completely disoriented—until I realized it was because my pillow was still damp with tears from earlier.
Homewrecker Candy was nowhere to be found when I exited the aircraft, Luka practically dragging me to the waiting limousine. Had he actually cheated on me with the flight attendant, or was it all a big show to hurt me? I had no idea, and I was afraid to ask when I knew the answer could potentially tear me apart.
Thinking back over our vacation, I was filled with bitterness. The most romantic city in the world, and I spent the entire time enduring Luka’s cold shoulder and monosyllabic responses to every question I had, every conversation I tried to start.
We took a day trip to Versailles that my parents had booked for us as a wedding gift, and when I saw Marie Antoinette’s retreat in the Trianon gardens, my chest tightened with empathy. Here was a girl who should have had it all—married to the king, ruler of France, wealthy beyond belief with every luxury at her fingertips. And yet she’d built herself tiny palaces to get away from it all. From the weight of the impossible expectations placed upon her, the difficult marriage to someone she hardly knew…a marriage agreed to for purely political reasons.
Part of me was convinced that I knew exactly how Marie had felt.
And then at the Orsay Museum, where all I wanted was to see Degas’ bronze ballerina in person. There was such a huge crowd around the diminutive, lifelike sculpture that Luka tried to pull me away from the gallery, insisting there were plenty of other artworks to see.
“I want to see her,” I had said. “I want to see the real satin ribbon in her hair, and the tulle of her tutu. I want to see the sculpture that caused such a scandal in the 1800s.”
“I’ve seen it a million times,” Luka said. “It’s overrated. It’s barely three feet tall.”
Smiling sweetly, I informed him in a harsh whisper that I did not fly four thousand fucking miles to get within ten feet of Little Dancer Aged 14 and then walk away without admiring it simply because I had to wait my turn.
Without another word, Luka had spun on his heel and left me there. Refusing to chase after him, I’d stood in the back of the crowd, slowly moving toward the bronze, one agonizing inch at a time. When the person in front of me finally stepped away, I gasped with delight at the ballerina. She was perfectly formed and shabby and even more beautiful than I’d imagined. But in that moment I was alone, with no one at my side to share my joy with.
After that day, I stopped trying to chase the magic by myself. I settled into the routine Luka had laid out for us, barely leaving the hotel and pasting a fake smile on my face during our few mandatory excursions. It had been painful to live through, but at least it was over now.
Closing my eyes against the memories of our disastrous trip, I start to drift off on the ride home. The next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake.
“Are we home?” I mumbled, my voice husky with sleep. I don’t get an answer.
Opening my eyes, I take in Luka’s face and his very, very displeased expression.
“What the hell is going on, Brooklyn?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, massaging a crick in my neck, my brain in a complete fog.
Considering how little we actually did in Paris, I’m surprised at how wiped out I am. I’m not sure if it’s the jet lag or because of the exhausting show we’ve been putting on, and the stress of not knowing what would happen between me and Luka once we got back. Well, and I hadn’t been getting the best sleep on that stupid hotel sofa. It had been made for looks, not comfort.
“You got a text,” he says, holding my phone toward me. “Explain this.”
The screen is lit up, but I can’t see it clearly.
Between my mind-numbing crying meltdown on the plane, and my backseat nap, it takes me a moment to swipe my phone out of his hand.
The text includes a picture, and it’s from Mateo. He’s shirtless, flashing his six-pack abs and chest tattoos, posing
with a sexy thrust of his hip for the camera. That boy always could take a flawless selfie, not that it does anything for me. There’s a voice message attached to the image, though. I hitch a brow and get ready to launch into an explanation until I remember…
I have a playing card right here that I’d completely forgotten about.
Despite being friendly with each other at the wedding and forming some kind of truce, Luka is obviously still deeply jealous of my best friend. Maybe it would be good for my husband if the tables were turned a little bit. Luka’s a pro at throwing women in my face to see just how jealous he can make me. Yet, with one little picture of my half-naked best friend, I’ve been given the power to do the same damn thing.
“I don’t know,” I say with a yawn. “But damn, he looks good.”
“Why is he sending you this?” Luka prods, even more furious. “It’s inappropriate. You’re a married woman. He’s naked.”
“Sure, from the waist up. Calm down, Luka. I’ve seen him a lot more naked than this.”
Our eyes meet, and I can see a little muscle jumping in his left jaw. The little flicker of jealousy makes me ridiculously satisfied. I have to stifle a smile.
“What’s the voice message say? What’s he saying to my wife?”
I shrug a shoulder. “What do you care, Mr. Lipstick-on-Your-Shirt?” Egging on his temper is childish and I know it, but I’m still livid about the drunken night he spent God-knows-where in Paris, on top of whatever may have just happened on our flight home. “I’m sure he isn’t saying anything to me that you weren’t saying to that bimbo flight attendant an hour ago.”
A frustrated growl comes from deep in his throat. He slides across the seat and starts digging around in the limo’s executive mini-bar. I hear glass clinking, the sound of liquid filling a cup, and then the scent of whiskey hits me as Luka takes a slug from the drink he’s just poured. I hate that he’s drinking again after going through so much effort to get it under control and keep it to a minimum level, but petty satisfaction still flows through me like sweet, sweet syrup. I’ve got him. I’m forcing him to eat a huge spoonful of his own medicine.
He moves back toward me with the short glass in his hand, and his eyes narrow. “It might serve you to remember that I’m not the one under contract, Mrs. Zoric.”
“Oh, yes you are, Mr. Zoric,” I shoot back. “Marriage is the biggest contract of all. And just as legally binding.”
I smile sweetly and tug the whiskey out of his hand, taking the biggest swallow I can manage—more because I don’t want him drinking it than because I actually like the taste myself.
My husband glares at me and steals his drink back. “We’ve talked about your relationship with this guy. You know how I feel about it. Have you forgotten that your little friendship caused problems with our image in the past?”
Oh, that’s rich. “Our image? This coming from the same man who was, in all likelihood, just photographed in Paris getting it on with a woman who isn’t me? And my friendship with Mateo isn’t ‘little.’ He’s been with me through thick and thin, and he’s more loyal than you are.”
He huffs out a breath. “Listen—”
“You don’t have any standing with me right now, Luka,” I cut him off. “I know that I screwed up, but I don’t think you know what the hell you’re doing. Drinking again? Running around with other women? Screwing that stewardess on the flight home?”
“Is that what you think I did for eight-and-a-half hours?” Luka smirks.
“It’s obviously what you want me to think!” I shout back, but part of me is relieved that he’s sort of just denied it. “You want to hurt me with your shitty behavior, fine. Go ahead. But stay the hell out of my personal life.”
I dismiss him with a look and return to the image of Mateo. I know my husband is watching as I zoom in with my fingertips and study my best friend’s hard abs. I make an appreciative sound as I play with the image and tilt it back and forth for a closer look. Then, I dig my airpods from my bag and pop them into my ears so I can listen to the voice message without any eavesdropping.
It’s only a few seconds long, just Mateo asking me if he looks bloated because he’s got a photo shoot for an underwear ad coming up tomorrow and he spent all weekend drinking rosé with some investment banker hottie he met on one of his dating apps. It’s typical Mateo, but his voice leaves me smiling, and I can sense Luka tensing up on the seat across from me.
“Well?” he asks, leaning forward.
Turning toward the window, blatantly ignoring him, I decide I’m going to play this for all its worth. I start texting Mateo back, tapping my screen furiously, giggling a little as I do. All it says is that I hope he had a great time and that I’m sure he’ll nail the gig, even if he did spend all weekend engaging in rampant hedonism with Mr. Hottie Banker.
After I hit send I smile coyly, touching the tip of my finger to my lip as I replay the voice message, making a little show of it so Luka has no doubt that I’m listening to it again. Then I delete it, but I don’t let on. I keep the show going a while longer, pretending that Mateo is texting me back, even though he always goes to bed early the night before a photo shoot.
Luka finishes his drink and slams the empty glass down on the bar, but doesn’t bother pouring another one. Instead he stares out the window with a look of disgust on his face, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
I’ve never seen him fuming mad before, but I’m pretty sure I see smoke coming out of his ears. If I don’t cool it, there might be fire, too—and that might be a lot to handle in the back of a limo. The thing is? I no longer care.
He wants to play me, so it’s only natural that I play him back. Maybe jealousy is the only thread that will tie us together right now. It sucks, but if it’s all I’ve got to use, then so be it.
Two can definitely play this game.
Luka
Chapter 7
The new Khalid remix blows out my eardrums as I bench-press a bar loaded with a monster stack of weights. Diego’s standing nearby to spot me, but as I pump and sweat and try to fully exhaust all thoughts of Brooklyn from my mind, I see his brows knit together.
“You okay?” he says. I can’t hear him, but I can lip-read.
Huffing out a final tortured breath, I set the bar back in the uprights and sit up. My pecs and triceps are burning pleasantly, and I tug my AirPods out.
“I’m fucking great,” I lie, glancing around the gym to avoid eye contact.
“Really.” He gives me a dubious glance. “Look, I know we don’t hang much outside the gym, man…but if you need to unload, I’m down to grab a beer any time,” he offers.
I stand as Diego takes his turn getting into position on the bench. “What makes you think I need to talk?” I ask, my guard slipping down a fraction of an inch.
He shrugs and grips the barbell. “You’ve been giving off woman trouble vibes for weeks, and I see you in here every day now, abusing the weight machines like they did something to piss you off,” he says. “And considering the ring that showed up on your finger right around the time this all started, I’d wager a guess it’s something to do with that.”
“Hmmph.” As Diego gets going on his reps, I revert to brooding.
Ever since Brooklyn and I wrapped up the honeymoon from hell and came home to Chicago, we’ve been avoiding each other. The majority of my waking hours are spent at work, and I’m at the gym so often now that it’s practically become a part-time job for me. I’m sure Diego’s had his suspicions for a while, but maybe he was expecting it to blow over by now.
My colleagues at Danica Rose Management are also probably wondering why I’m spending so much time at the office. I’m known to have a workaholic streak, and I’ve always scoffed at the term “work-life balance,” but they’ve never seen this much of me at the agency before—especially outside of the usual hours. I’ve tried to be casual about it and keep to myself, but I’m sure a few rumors are flying about why I’m not at home with my new bride. Most m
en would be running out of here at the end of the day to get into Brooklyn’s arms, yet I always find an excuse to stay locked up in my corner office suite a little while longer.
I guess it’s a good thing business has picked up and there’s more than enough to keep me busy. It makes it easier for me to delay returning to the penthouse at the end of each day. Stefan has thanked me for my diligence a few times—hardly concerned that I seem to be neglecting my arranged marriage—but no one else has said anything to me directly, of course.
If only they knew what’s really going on.
And I don’t just work late, either. I work on the weekends. I even bring contracts and portfolios and contact sheets from photo shoots home with me, so I have an actual purpose for holing up in my home office. I thought I had it tough trying to avoid my wife in Paris, but now that we’re back in my lofty penthouse—with more than enough room for ten people—it still seems like I can’t stay far enough out of her way.
We even eat in shifts in the kitchen, so we don’t have to be in the same room together. She never uses the common areas like I do, preferring instead to entertain herself in her bedroom. It used to bother me that she didn’t feel comfortable enough to make my home hers, but now…now I’m glad she didn’t, so I can enjoy my space without being reminded she’s in it.
In fact, I prefer when she’s inside her room, door shut, out of my reach. What I can’t quite figure out is how to keep her out of my head.
As Diego finishes up, sweat beading on his forehead, I tilt my head toward the treadmills. “Gonna get in some cardio,” I tell him. “See you around.”
“Sure thing, man,” he says. “Shoot me a text if you need to.”
“Will do.”
I don’t normally go for a run unless it’s outdoors, but now I crank up the machine and try to lose myself in the hard slap of my Nikes against the belt under my feet.