I jut my bent arm in her direction, but she hesitates to slip her hand over my elbow.
“We have an image to uphold, in case you’ve forgotten,” I hiss. “The public doesn’t need to know what a conniving liar you are.”
She lifts her chin and takes my arm. We both paste on fake smiles as another couple comes toward us. After they pass, she gives my arm a little squeeze. “Can we please talk, Luka?”
“There’s nothing you could say to me that I’m interested in hearing. Now smile big.”
Another couple, more fake smiles. Finally, we’re outside and the sunlight warms my face. I feel a flash of relief until I remember the ugly reality of the situation. With no destination in mind, we take a left and begin to wander. Brooklyn’s grip tightens on my arm as she tilts her head back, taking in the sight of the sloped mansard roofs on the old buildings, the puffy white clouds, the sweet smells from a bakery that fill the air as we stroll down the sidewalk.
A woman stands outside the boulangerie, wearing a starched linen apron and holding a silver tray with various fruit and chocolate pastries cut into sample sizes. Her smile brightens when she sees us approach. Holding out the tray, she murmurs in French for us to try some.
Brooklyn moves to accept a treat, but I tell the woman, “Merci, mais non,” and subtly steer my wife away.
“Those are too good for you,” I whisper harshly when we’re out of range.
Her jaw drops. “But I’m starving!”
“Not my problem.”
She shoots me a glare, but I keep my gaze focused straight ahead.
“This is how it’s going to be, Luka? For real?” She’s walking faster now.
“Remember who started this. For clarity’s sake, it wasn’t me.”
There’s a crowd up ahead near a café, so we smile again and politely make our way through. Brooklyn slows her stride to assess what the people sitting at the sidewalk tables have on their plates as we pass. I pull her along, ignoring her irritated huff.
“We should eat if we’re going to be walking around the city all day,” she points out.
I scoff. “I’m not sitting down to share a meal with you. Besides, we had coffee and croissants this morning. You’re fine.”
“That was just a snack!” she protests.
“You can wait to eat in your own room back at the hotel.”
Brooklyn quickens her pace again, her jaw tightening. “You’re being a complete ass.”
I don’t know why she keeps setting herself up like this. “I wouldn’t have to be, if my wife wasn’t a liar.”
I have no patience, the irritation inside me building to a boiling point. This walk isn’t helping me blow off any steam. Brooklyn’s touch on my arm is bittersweet, and I just want to be done with this whole thing.
“I’m stopping for coffee,” she says, pulling away from me and marching toward a crêperie that has a street-facing window with a to-go counter.
Following her, I watch as she struggles with the menu, handwritten in French on a chalkboard. At one point she glances over at me with her brows knit together, as if I might use my proficiency in the language to help her out. I don’t. Finally, she goes up to the counter and stumbles through an order, paying with a credit card and returning with a café au lait in a gold paper cup and what looks like a ham, mushroom, and cheese crêpe wrapped in wax paper. From the looks of it, she ordered well—but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of telling her that.
We start back down the street, and with both hands occupied, she can’t take my arm again. I’m both disappointed and relieved.
As she nibbles on her food, we wander. The blend of Gothic, Renaissance, and Classical architecture is captivating, and we walk in silence for a while just soaking it all in. Until we both glance up to find laundry hanging out to dry between the peach-hued buildings and spy a fluttering, lacy white gown hanging haphazardly over the line, as if someone had simply tossed it out the window to land where it may.
Brooklyn pulls out her phone to capture the image, no doubt for her Insta followers. “I can almost see a story there,” she murmurs to herself as she swipes through various filters.
“I’m sensing a scorned lover,” I interject. “The groom probably had the good sense to call it off before he got screwed over.”
She looks up at me and frowns. “You can stop with the barbs anytime.”
“Why? If I have to live with this, so do you.”
“Live with what, Luka?” She tosses the remainder of her food in the trash, as if she’s lost her appetite.
“This prison of a marriage. I thought we at least respected and cared about each other. But you killed it, Brooklyn—any hope there was of making this marriage accommodating and tolerable for the next two years. So if I have to be fucking miserable, so the fuck do you.”
Her eyelids flutter and I feel a flicker of guilt, but it doesn’t last. I head in the direction of the Place Charles de Gaulle, and she catches up until we’re arm in arm again. When we finally reach the Arc de Triomphe, she gasps and pulls out her phone for another perfect Parisian snap.
“Can you take my picture?” she asks. I frown. “I need to look like I’m having a good time here,” she reminds me. “You don’t have to be in it.”
I know she’s right, so I oblige, opening the camera app and then centering her with the arch curving majestically just over her shoulder. She walks over to a nearby plaque and reads, “Commissioned by the Emperor Napoleon in 1806…”
“You know, Napoleon was betrayed by his own troops,” I say, walking up behind her. “I can only imagine how that felt. You want to climb the stairs to the top of the arch, honey?”
She looks up at me with a frown. “Let’s just go,” she says.
We get on the Metro at Etoile and take the line two subway to Montmartre, since I love the hike up to the Sacré-Coeur.
But as we approach the round white domes of the Sacred Heart basilica, we find a huge crowd of tourists taking pictures. We don’t even make it to the steps before three young women shyly approach us. They’re all tall, thin model types. Just the kind to know exactly who Brooklyn and I are.
“Oh my God, can we get a picture of you guys?” the tallest asks in perfect American English. She probably follows Brooklyn and Danica Rose Management’s social media accounts.
“Of course!” Brooklyn says, suddenly full of sunshine. She moves closer to me and I angle us with the cathedral to our backs.
“That’s great! How about a kiss? It’s your honeymoon!” The singsong way the girl says it makes me nauseous. Like we’re supposed to be head over heels every waking moment.
I work my jaw, then turn to look down at my new bride. I smile, keeping my venom to myself. Brooklyn knows it’s there, though—and by hell, she’s going to taste it.
Cupping the back of her head in my hand, I pull her hair and position her the way I want. I claim her mouth, hard and possessive. Let them think I’m in love with my wife, that I can’t wait to get her back to the hotel.
In reality, it takes everything inside me not to devour her in my anger. To drown her with the furious frenzy of lust and heartbreak and disappointment inside me.