I’m barely listening. She’s said the same thing about five times now, in five different ways—but I know what I saw with my own eyes, in black and white. A contract between Elite Image and Brooklyn Moss, offering her big incentives—including a lucrative modeling contract and a deal to work with Maxilene—to provide EI with insider information that would assist them in a takeover of Danica Rose Management. Those assholes actually think they can buy us out.
And Brooklyn didn’t bat an eye at agreeing to help them.
I storm back out to the suite’s sitting room and drop her shoes, her lacy underwear, her jewelry, all of it, into the open suitcase I already hauled out and left next to the sofa. Then I go back for her pillow and a spare blanket. She’s going to have to just suck it up for the next week and enjoy sleeping out here on the couch. Alone.
Brooklyn’s voice pitches higher as I toss the bedding onto the sofa. “Just stop and listen, please! I met with them months ago, before anything even happened between us.”
I finally look up and watch her, my heart thumping hard against my breastbone.
We could have been so good together. I know the feeling of those lips wrapped around my cock, the glide of her thick, glossy hair between my fingers, how she loves it when I wrap my fist around it when I’m taking her from behind.
Fuck! I shake my head and turn away.
She rushes over to the fireplace and falls to her knees to start rifling through the ashes. Curious despite my anger, I give her a cursory glance.
“I burned the contract,” she babbles. “I tossed it in here, lit the fireplace, and burned it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “That was just your copy.”
Brooklyn looks up at me, her hands still buried in ash. “What? I never even signed the damn thing, and I can prove it.”
My mouth is dry, but I manage to retort, “So you held on to that contract for months and then waited until after we were married to decide if you were going to betray me or not. How upstanding of you.”
The fact that she waited makes everything even worse. I’d been getting closer and closer to her for weeks, and the whole time she had the contract in her back pocket, trying to figure out which of her options would benefit her the most. It’s obvious she never felt anything real for me. Not even on our wedding day—which had turned out to be more than I ever expected.
“Luka, I burned it! My loyalty isn’t to Elite, it’s to you—I want to be with you.”
She searches my eyes, her gaze desperate, but I keep my glare cold and steely.
“Marrying you is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made,” I say, watching her jerk back as if I just slapped her. Good. I want her to hurt, more than I am right now.
I’d been so proud that this smart, driven, genuinely kind woman was walking down the aisle dressed in white to be my life partner. But she played me. My own family has done a lot of shitty things to me during my life, but none of it compares to this. The cold shock of betrayal, the gut-slicing feeling of being blindsided by someone so close to you, and for no reason other than to get themselves ahead. I had a weak spot for Brooklyn, and she used it against me.
I shake my head and go into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
As I twist off my wedding ring, the door opens, but Brooklyn just stands at the threshold.
“How did Monica even get a copy of the contract, Luka? Something isn’t right.”
I shrug, setting the ring on the dresser. “I don’t care. It’s beside the point.”
She clasps her hands. “It does matter, though. If Elite can’t get what they want from me, they’ll use someone else to do it. Maybe she’s their next spy. Haven’t you considered that?”
Wow, just moving right along to deflecting her guilt onto the next available person she can find. How did I ever, ever read Brooklyn’s character so wrong?
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Monica and I go way back,” I grind out. “She’s already sitting pretty with Elite, so they’ve got no leverage on her to do their dirty work. And besides, she’s a friend. She’s only got my best interests in mind. Unlike my wife.”
Wife. What a fucking bitter, laughable word. I’m so done with Brooklyn Moss.
I want out of this room, back on the plane where I can consume myself with work and shut her the hell out completely. Instead, I have to suffer through a two-week-long Paris honeymoon that was supposed to be the start of our future together. This vacation was supposed to mean something.
Now, it’s just a prison sentence.
Brooklyn goes to the table beside the sofa, picking up her cell phone and walking back to the bedroom doorway. She scrolls, taps the screen, and then holds it out for me to see.
She’s calling Elite.
“I told you that I’m done with them,” she insists. “And now I’ll prove it to you.”
I stand there watching impassively as she leaves a message for Austin Spears, telling him their deal is off and that she’s no longer interested in what they’d discussed. It hardly matters. My mind is already made up. I spin on my heel and make a final trip into the bedroom’s en suite bathroom for her toiletries. Brooklyn’s eyes shimmer with tears as I drop them on the sofa.
“What’s all this?” she asks.
“Your bedroom for the next two weeks,” I tell her grimly.
“Luka—”
“I’d like to say I’m a gentleman, but you don’t deserve that from me. I hope the sofa’s comfortable.” I start to walk away, and then add, “Oh—and don’t even think about wandering around Paris by yourself. We still have an image to uphold.”
With that, Brooklyn’s eyes flash. “Are you kidding me? You can’t keep me locked up in here! We need to talk about this, like two adults!”
I can’t take her shit anymore. “Enough! This fucking hotel will be prison for both of us until this fake honeymoon is over. If I’m trapped in this hellhole, so are you.”
Making a final gesture at the room—which is pretty luxurious for a prison, to be fair—I storm back into the bedroom and slam the door, locking it behind me. I wish I could lock it a hundred times. For a while, I stand out on the balcony, blankly looking out at the scenery. We should be having the time of our lives right now, and instead I’m trying not to boot her ass straight back to Chicago on the first commercial flight out of Charles de Gaulle.
Finally, I go to the desk and open my laptop, checking my email with a few angry keystrokes. Desperate for busy work, I pull up some documents that need my electronic signature. Then I pass the day sending off a flurry of emails, reviewing new client contracts, and making some overdue calls. But it’s really all a blur.
I can barely focus with my emotions eating me alive.
At some point I hear the shower turn on in the other bathroom, and later Brooklyn knocks on the door to tell me she ordered room service for lunch. I ignore her.
The scent of rain carries on a gust of wind through the open French doors, and suddenly I realize it’s dark outside. The clock on my laptop says 3:54 p.m., though it’s set to Chicago’s time zone—it’s almost 11p.m. local—but I realize it’s been a while since I heard a peep from Brooklyn on the other side of the door.