by Stella Gray
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.
Anger rushes through me all over again. Did she ignore my demand to stay in the room?
I go quietly to the door and crack it. The living area is shadowed. It takes me a second to realize that Brooklyn has moved all of her things to one end of the couch, her body huddled under a blanket at the other end. The TV is on some French news channel, and she’s fast asleep.
I step over to her, hands in my pockets, heart in my throat. Even asleep, a half-frown tugging at the corner of her mouth, she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.
Something tugs in my chest, but I smash it down. Fuck that. She doesn’t deserve any kindness from me after what she tried to pull. I fight back the urge to move the hair out of her face. To scoop her into my arms and tuck her into the bed where she’ll be more comfortable.
She won’t get any of that from me. This isn’t what I want, but it’s what we’re both going to get.
How the hell did I get her so wrong?
Luka
Chapter 2
It’s been two full days and I can’t take another second of being cooped up in this prison.
Brooklyn has tried to grab any opportunity to try to talk, to make me listen to her excuses and lies, but I’ve become deft at s
hutting her out. We’ve been ordering room service for every meal, eating in separate rooms, and haven’t left the suite once. Everyone thinks they know what we’re doing, locking ourselves away in here. We’re on our honeymoon, after all. We should be having nonstop sex. But what I’m really experiencing is pure hell. I can feel the constant tension despite the closed door between us, and I’m sick of listening to the same playlist of loud, angry songs on shuffle.
I step out on the balcony outside my bedroom and stretch as I take in the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Bright morning light spills over the treetops and cathedral spires, and the air is just starting to turn warm, carrying the scent of spring flowers. But even Paris gets boring when your view never changes. I want out of here.
Stretching my legs as I walk around the city and letting my mind wander sounds like heaven. I’d love to be able to focus on something other than what Brooklyn did to me. But unfortunately, I can’t be seen out in public without my bride. It wouldn’t be good for PR. So I guess that leaves me with only one choice if I have any hope of setting foot outside this cell.
Throwing open the bedroom door, I start to speak to Brooklyn but then stop in my tracks and do a double take as I realize the sitting room looks different.
“Everything okay?” she asks, but I don’t respond as I look around at what she’s done.
All of her personal effects are organized and tucked away. The windows are open, the curtains tied back. She’s arranged an oversized chair with a pillow and blanket in the corner, near the largest window. A black satin teddy hangs over the back of the chair, taunting me. Did she wear that when she went to bed last night? Did the hem ride up her tight thighs while she slept?
Fuck. I can’t afford to let my mind go there.
She’s looking at me curiously, obviously still waiting for me to say something. As I take her in fully, I realize she’s lounging in a boxy tee shirt that barely covers her ass. I look away.
“We’re going out,” I bark.
“Where?” Brooklyn’s face lights up. “To do what?”
“Nothing fancy,” I tell her, purposely shooting her down. “Get dressed.”
I go back in my room and move to shut the door, then decide to keep it open. I might despise her, but she’s still mine. She’s under my command, and she needs to be aware of that.
Pushing the door wider, I cross my arms and make it very clear that I’m going to keep an eye on her every move. After a quick glance at me, Brooklyn walks out of view into the foyer. I hear the bathroom door click shut a second later.
Grinding my jaw, I go deeper into my room and pick out my own clothes, dressing in a hurry as I ponder what we’re going to do today. Anything. Nothing.
What she deserves is to be punished—I don’t want her to enjoy herself. Don’t want to provide her with a leisurely parade around the City of Lights. Not after what she’s done. So I’ll keep our activities to the basics. No upscale brasseries or basement jazz clubs or locals-only cafés. In fact, I’m not going to bring her to a single one of the secret spots I had originally planned on impressing her with.
I look in the mirror and adjust the cuffs of my shirt. I don’t know why this has been such a shock. Brooklyn hasn’t done anything to me that scores of other women haven’t done before. Women have used me for as long as I can remember. And I’ve used them right back. Why not? I’ve got the looks and the money to give most of them what they’re after.
Pretty pictures for their social media accounts. Entertainment. Access to the kinds of VIP restaurants, clubs, and parties they wouldn’t otherwise get into. Unbelievable sex. I get laid; they get pampered.
Done deal.
I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that Brooklyn was self-serving in how she used me. It’s nothing more than I might have done, had the tables been turned. But I have no plans for the future yet. Every time I try to think about my next steps, the betrayal hits me hard all over again. It’s an unfamiliar predicament to be in. No other woman has made me feel like this before.
I just need to get through Paris. Once I’m back in Chicago, it’ll be easier to figure out what to do. The only reason I’m having a hard time right now is because we’re on our fucking honeymoon. I can’t wrap my head around the disconnect between what’s supposed to be happening and what actually happened.
She quietly reenters the sitting room and I lean back against the bed to take in her sexy form. Then she turns her back to me and slowly pulls her tee shirt over her head. I hiss out a breath at the sight of her back, the golden skin bare and slender, the dimples over her ass, her lacy thong disappearing between the naked globes. She gives me the barest glance over her shoulder, lips quirked to one side as we make eye contact. She knows I’m watching. My mouth is watering, and I can feel my balls tighten.
Sauntering to her suitcase, she bends to grab some clothes, giving me a full view of that perfect ass. My pulse kicks up another notch and I have to adjust my pants as she steps into a pair of skinny jeans that conform to her long, toned legs. Sans bra, she slides into a filmy, pale pink blouse. The back is cut out, showing off the strong lines of her back.
She’s taunting me. Luring me. Trying to force me to forgive her. It’s not going to work.
Brooklyn turns and pulls her hair back. The blouse drapes over her breasts with a delicate touch, the stiff peaks of her nipples clearly visible.
Anger flares to life inside me. Or maybe it’s sexual frustration. No, it’s both—and I don’t even care. I want her and I hate myself for it.
She turns her back to me again, her hands behind her head as she loops her hair into a twist at the nape of her neck. The giant diamond ring on her left hand flashes in the sunlit room, flaming the war of emotions inside me.
“I’m ready,” she says quietly and grabs her clutch, holding it between her hands while she quietly waits for me.
“Then let’s go.” I brush by her and she spins to catch up. I don’t wait. I open the door to the hall and go out first, not holding it for her. Not caring if it swings back in her face. It doesn’t, of course, and only when we reach the lobby do I slow down and allow her to walk beside me.
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.
