by Kat T. Masen
“George!” I pick his fat little body up, cradling him in my arms. The smell of his doggy fur brings me so much joy and knowing he is alive and well. The housekeeper didn’t kill him from overfeeding him exotic dishes from the Philippines.
After smothering him and kissing his little pug face, I put him down to face the inevitable.
“You look good,” Wes comments dryly, lighting up a cigarette and blowing the smoke into the clean air.
“You look like shit.”
“Nice, Emerson.”
He lays back into the sofa; his eyes dark and surrounded by deep lines. Wesley hated growing any facial hair, so his mustache and beard come as a surprise. It added ten more years onto his babyface. He looked like utter shit and I reaped joy in that.
“I’m sorry.” Crossing my arms, I try to control the anger that has brewed—to the point of steaming—inside. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”
“Em . . . Please don’t. I’m just so . . .”
“Let me guess? You’re sorry. You don’t know how it happened. It was a mistake and you’ll never do it again,” I finish, placing the words in his mouth.
The room falls silent, only the sound of the sea crashing against the shore heard outside. Even George has left the room, prepared for the shitstorm ahead.
Wes moves his body and sits on the edge of the sofa. His fingers tapping against his knee rapidly with a nervous energy bouncing off him. He was probably high, and that thought alone, angered me even more.
“Are you high now?” I yell, the sound of my voice echoing through the room.
“No.”
My eyes move away, desperate to erase the image before me. This isn’t him. This isn’t the guy I fell in love with. And to make it worse, I don’t know how we got here. What was troubling him so much that he took this road? Why sniffing that deadly shit was even a thought?
“I can’t even look at you.”
The built-up emotions hit me like a wrecking ball. Hard, fast, and knocking the wind out of my stomach making it difficult to breathe. The lack of remorse, the pathetic apology, the disregard for my feelings. All of it had come to this moment. The moment that I needed to tell him what I wanted.
“I want you to leave,” I tell him in a stern voice, sucking in my breath to control the bile lingering around my throat.
Instantly, his expression changes; eyes wide with his cheeks flushed, shading the pale white he reflected only moments ago.
“Emerson, please don’t. I fucked up. I’m sorry. I’ll make it better. Please, we can move past this. Just give it time. I promise you I will make it up to you.”
He doesn’t move from the sofa, no attempt to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Not that it would have helped. Stroked my ego, perhaps. But I was beyond the need for ego-stroking.
I shake my head with a sardonic laugh. “If that was me being fucked by two guys, would you like me to make it up to you?”
The minute I said the words, the pang of guilt stabs me as I had so easily forgotten about what happened with Logan. It wasn’t the moment to think about it. Logan and I made a pact—keep it a secret. It wasn’t a big deal. We had some drinks and were frustrated with Ash.
And what Wesley did was far worse.
Yet even as my mind tried to rationalize, the guilt lingered and allowed me long enough to hear Wesley out.
“I know I screwed up. Things were just too . . . you know . . . safe between us.”
“Safe? Wesley, I can’t even think right now. Do you know what I was more worried about? George. What would happen to him rather than us. Maybe that’s saying a lot about our relationship.”
I storm past him with my suitcase in hand, straight to our bedroom. Shutting the door behind me, I lean back and close my eyes trying to calm down my racing heart. George’s yelp startles me, and with my eyes wide open, I scan the room to see him sprawled across the shaggy white rug that sits near the window. My body falls to the ground, limp and weak with the stream of tears staining my tired face. George senses my hurt; stretching his stubby legs and walking across to me where he lays his head on my knee.
“Tell me I’m doing the right thing,” I whisper into George’s face, holding him close and seeking comfort is his warm body. “Tell me that somewhere out there, someone better is waiting for me.”
George closes his eyes, resting peacefully as my cell vibrates in my bag. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, reaching over to grab it, welcoming the distraction.
I sold your weed and bought those expensive soccer boots that you said looked like they belonged to a drag queen. Better I look like a drag queen than you stunt your growth.
I smile through my tears, putting my cell down and laying on the floor with George cuddled into my side. Logan had this way of making me laugh, although at times, I was more annoyed than humoured. But for today, it was exactly what I needed. That one text was enough to ease my troubles. Within minutes, I fall asleep to the sound of George’s grumbling snore.
“This is not how we expected to start the third season.”
Jeffrey Marsh is the executive president of the network. A short, balding man, with a ruthless attitude and known as a shark in the industry. Surrounding him is his team—all nervous and writing down notes as he speaks.
I sit beside Nina and across the table from Wesley. We had spent the last hour hearing Jeffrey crucify Wesley for his actions. You could feel sorry for the guy—if you weren’t his fiancée that got screwed over.
“I don’t know what the fuck you were thinking, Rich? Do you know how damaging this is for the network? Drugs . . . Really?” Jeffrey continues to pace the boardroom, up and down, repeating the same thing over and over again.
I hated this.
No couple should have to sit in a boardroom and have their relationship dissected by money-hungry executives. Another reminder of why I wanted out.
“It’s not going to work with me and Wes. We’re not together anymore. I think it’s best if I leave the show,” I raise my voice, making myself heard and my demands perfectly clear.
Jeffrey sits down in his chair, swinging back and forth while staring at the door. He finally speaks, filling the silence.
“I understand your predicament, Emerson. But we are only into filming the third season. We’re rating number one in our timeslot. The fans are obsessed with watching the both of you as a couple. Even if I said leave, it’s not just the network that suffers. It’s all our sponsorships. They’ll withdraw and it will affect the future of the show.” He swivels his chair to face me. “Everyone that works on the show’s future may be in jeopardy. Do you really want to be responsible for that?
He poses the question so lightly like he is asking me if I wanted fries with that. Nina looks just as confused, promising me that it wouldn’t be a huge issue given the circumstances.
Across the table, Wes stares back at me. I could have sworn he was smirking, quick to change his expression when I made eye contact with him. I wanted to grab the glass of water in front of me and throw it in his face. This is all his fault.
“What are you trying to say?” I ask, heated.
“You are contractually obliged to film for another two seasons. Remember? You signed the contract last year while negotiating more money per episode.” Jeffrey slides the contract towards me. “So, to answer your question, you’re going to film and you’re going to stay with Wesley for at least this season. Now, towards the end of the season, I’m happy to show the cracks of the relationship. It would make for a good cliffhanger for season three.”
“You’re joking, right?” I laugh nervously, looking around the room to be met with blank faces. Blank because no one was standing up for what I wanted.
“I’m not joking, Chase. In fact, read your terms and conditions.”
I don’t listen to Jeffrey, begging Wes with my eyes to say something. He doesn’t seem to follow, gazing at me oddly while remaining silent.
“Okay, I think we’re done here.�
�
Jeffrey leaves the room followed by his shark posse. Nina is quick to open her mouth the moment the three of us are remaining.
“Emerson. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
“It’s not your fault,” I respond, still in shock. “I guess I should go home.”
I mumble goodbye and ignore the rest of the staff as I exit the room and wait for the elevator. Wes follows quickly and enters the lift with only the two of us occupying it. I watch the numbers count down, keeping silent until the doors open into the lobby and outside, swarms of paparazzi are on standby.
Suddenly, warmth graces my hand. I look down and see Wes’s hand intertwined with mine.
“What are you doing?”
“What I’ve been asked to do. Make everything look like normal. You’re still my fiancée as far as the network is concerned,” he responds eagerly, holding tight and pulling me along. “C’mon, let’s go home.”
“Wesley. Stop.”
I pull my hand away, the both of us standing in the middle of the lobby. His body is stiff; jaw tight and eyes impatient, waiting for me to talk.
As I am just about to tell him no, the automatic doors open and the noise of the paparazzi, together with the non-stop flashing, halts my original plan. They were watching, taking photos of this moment. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. Looking like a fool to the world.
I look at them one more time, then to Wes. His crooked smile soon follows, taking a step forward, wrapping his arm around my waist. With the bright lights hurting my eyes like they always had, Wes leans in and plants a kiss on the side of my neck.
“You’re still my fiancée. Whether you like it or not.”
The change of tone, grit in his voice, left me feeling unsettled. I tried my best to walk away but was told I had no choice. Forced to live with a man I no longer respected. A man who broke me.
A man who made it his mission to make me as miserable as possible.
And the icing on the fucked-up cake . . . The whole world would watch him do just that.
“It’s the little things that can make you happy.
Sometimes those little things can turn out into something greater.”
~ Emerson Chase
Several weeks passed since that meeting.
A day that cemented the truth: my life did not belong to me. I had no option but to keep myself busy: photoshoots, interviews, and drinking whenever we were out at social gatherings. Twitter was buzzing with some story calling me an alcoholic trainwreck. It happened to be a coincidence that every photo snapped of me was with a glass of wine in hand. After that broke loose, I made a note to stay clear of drinking in public. The network executives didn’t want my squeaky-clean image to ruin the show.
Yet Wes could fuck two hookers.
There was one thing I made clear to Wesley—we were over. The betrayal didn’t erase because we were told to continue the show. When the cameras were on, we acted as if nothing happened, but as soon as they left, he slept in the spare room and knew not to go anywhere near me. I had to give it to him, he tried his best to apologize through romantic dinners and roses being brought home. I just wasn’t interested. At least, in my eyes, the love had diminished to the point that I didn’t see a future with him.
I had isolated myself from everyone. I was glad that everyone else’s lives were so busy that it was convenient for me. Mom had wrapped up her book and went into stress mode as she always does when it sits in the hands of her editor. Her coping mechanism is baking, which is great if you’re in the same house. Instead, she would send me pics which only depressed me even further.
Ash and Logan were back to training in England—preparing for the semi-finals in a few weeks. I knew not to bother either of them. When in game mode, nothing else mattered. I did, however, find a friendship with Alessandra. We talked regularly about life, work, and the pits of living with Ash. He was and still is—a slob.
I had spent the day shooting an interview for our new workout clothing line when Cliff called asking me and Wesley to film in the apartment tonight. They had done some edits but needed more footage of us discussing our wedding. I dreaded filming this; a topic I had wanted to stay clear of considering I had no intention of marrying him.
Our makeup artist, Reba, hovers over me with her brush, touching up just under my eyes. Our regular camera crew, Karl and Josie, stand in position as we sit on the white sofa.
“I can’t wait to make you my wife.” Wes grins, tracing the tip of my ring that still sits on my finger.
“I guess we should start planning the wedding?” I manage to say with a smile present, mentally aware that my body language needed to be relaxed and not tense.
“I’m thinking Paris. Winter. Just like when I proposed.”
“That sounds beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Wesley tilts his head and moves his body in, placing his lips on mine. He knew it was the only way to touch me, and so I allowed it, kissing him back as if I wanted him. As if he was good and pure, never breaking my heart.
Every time we filmed over the past few weeks, he would touch me as much as possible. I knew very well he wanted more and he wasn’t shy in telling me that. I just couldn’t do it. It’s almost like I would be letting my inner woman down. There had been one occasion where I almost caved. He looked handsome that night and said the right words. I hadn’t had any sexual activity since that night in the lake. What stopped me was the way his eyes had wandered mid-conversation to another woman walking past in a tight red dress.
Game over, loser.
“I’m so lucky to have you. Don’t you think it’s fate? Us being on this show and falling in love?” He waits for my response, and because this conversation is scripted and not reality, I try to remember my lines as best as I can.
“I do think it’s fate. And one day our kids will watch this show and see how we fell in love.” I bite my tongue immediately after, tasting the nasty blood in my mouth.
Before the conversation can continue, my cell dances across the coffee table. Karl motions for me to pick it up, continuing to roll the camera.
“Hey sis!” Ash’s loud cheer barrels through the speaker, and I couldn’t be happier to see his face even if we were being filmed. Cliff always preferred video calls rather than regular calls. Apparently, the audience responded well to this.
“Good news?”
“We won the game today!”
“Congratulations!” I beam with joy. “Dad must be so happy.”
“He’s here with us. Actually, he and Coach are downstairs talking about something.”
It wasn’t uncommon for the cameras to film private conversations. If Ash consented to this conversation being on the show, Cliff may use this footage. Most of the time, unless the topic on hand was interesting, it ended up on the cutting-room floor.
“And Logan? He must be just as pumped as you.”
Ash laughs, chasing down a blue Powerade before responding. “So pumped that he’s on the balcony surrounded by his girl posse. Did I tell you Alessandra wants to move out? I think she’s over the random girls dropping by.”
I keep my smile fixed, trying to ignore the ache in my stomach. The feeling is odd and unsettling. The same feeling I got when Mom and Dad took Ash to Disneyland one year and I was forced to stay with my grandparents because I had projectile-vomited all over the hotel room.
The matter of fact is that we had a fling. It wasn’t even a fling. It was a moment of insanity. That moment of insanity should not translate into jealously—full stop.
“Tell him I said congrats and give my love to Dad.”
“Will do.” He appears distracted, talking to someone in the background. “Oh, and Alessandra and I have some news.”
“You’re pregnant?” I blurt out.
“No,” he answers panicked, almost breaking into a sweat. “We’re thinking about having a proper wedding, something low key. Once this season dies down.”
“That�
��ll be nice.”
Wes takes the cell from my hands, saying hello to Ash. They talk for a couple minutes about the game even though Wes had no interest in sports unless it involved a ring and two girls in bikinis.
“Great. We’ll be there,” Wes finishes, handing the cell back to me.
Dad and their coach had entered the room forcing Ash to say goodbye. As soon as the call ends, Wes starts to talk to me about Ash’s wedding despite my mind being elsewhere.
“You didn’t tell me Ash got married?”
“Yeah, it was the reason I flew back home. Remember that weekend?”
He barely holds a smile, annoyed that I had even brought it up especially in front of the cameras. Karl knows this is a sore topic—spending almost every day with the both of us—but zooms the camera in to catch our conversation at a more intimate level.
“Oh yeah. I totally forgot,” he lies. Brushing it off like it meant nothing, he lifts his legs and rests his feet on the coffee table. “Who else was there?”
“Just my family.”
“Your family?”
“You know mom, dad, sister, brother.” I spell it out in plain English, not understanding the stupid question or where he is going with it.
“That’s it?”
“And Logan. But he doesn’t count. He’s like a brother to me. Reiterate . . . family.”
“Then you’re lying,” he states, arms crossed.
I turn to face him. “I’m not lying. You asked who was there and I told you.”
“He spends an awful lot of time with your family.”
I wanted to stab Wesley Rich straight in the eye. He knew I didn’t like to talk about my family in front of the camera. It was a part of my life I tried to keep private despite Ash and Mom being known. Logan had always been a topic that Wes avoided. They had never actually met. The only reason Wes had met Ash was when Ash flew over for a couple of days last year without Logan.