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 men 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.
She’s not gone from the penthouse often, just a few quick trips every week so she can go to gigs, work out, and run errands. But we still have our public image to uphold, and I made it clear she wasn’t to engage in any social events without me.
It’s nothing but frustrating. On the one hand, it’s a huge relief when she’s gone, but on the other—I can’t stand it when she is. It’s a cliché case of can’t live with her, can’t live without her. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I think about her constantly, my mind straying to what she’s doing, or replaying all the most torturous details from all the times we’ve had sex.