The Act

by Stella Gray

  Andrew nodded. “So you’re smart and ambitious. I like that.”

  I’d never been called ambitious before. My family appreciated the work I did, and I knew that Ford was supportive as well, but I sometimes got the sense that everyone thought of my photography as more of a hobby than a long-term career. Maybe that was why I’d been able to confess my feelings to Andrew, basically a complete stranger, before anyone in my family.

  The thing was, I couldn’t just abandon ship to go off on some self-indulgent, soul-searching art sabbatical. As much as I yearned to photograph the wider world—I loved visiting ancient ruins and crumbling cemeteries in particular—I had a responsibility to make sure the agency and all the people it employed stayed afloat.

  Still, it was nice to talk about my dreams with someone.

  “I’d love to see more of your work sometime,” he said. “Outside of the agency stuff.”

  “Okay?” I said, a little surprised by his interest. “Sure. I mean, I’m flattered.”

  He took his wallet out, extracted a business card, and handed it over. “I have to confess, I’m not just a casual observer. I’m in the business myself, so to speak.”

  Andrew Apellido, Editor-in-Chief, lookingglass.

  “We’re an up-and-coming online publication,” he said. “I’ve seen your work, and I have to say, you’ve got just the eye. I think you’re perfect for what we’re looking for. Plus, if you don’t mind me saying so, the Zoric name would be a good prestige boost for the magazine.”

  I didn’t mind, especially since a lot of people still saw my family as pariahs. It was nice to know others out there still thought the Zoric name carried some weight. In a good way.

  Then I turned over the card and noticed the address. “Oh.”

  “What?” Andrew asked. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s just that you’re based in New York. I mean, I know the internet is a thing, but—”

  “Ah. Yes,” he said. “I’d want you there in person. Ideally, we’d send you out on freelance assignments, eventually giving you more creative control—maybe even a permanent position if it works out. I’d love to discuss it more in detail. We could fly you out, of course.”

  I found myself tempted. What would it be like to go to New York to work? To move there? I’d miss my family, for sure, but maybe I deserved a fresh start. If it weren’t for Ford, I’d probably say yes.

  But my chest hurt when I remembered that he wouldn’t be in my way forever. That our marriage was temporary.

  Clearing the tightness from my throat, I said, “Circle back to me in a year. I’ve got a contract I can’t get out of, but I’m interested. For sure.”

  He looked pleased. “Why don’t I give you my personal number. That way you can call me directly once your contract is up.”

  We exchanged our contact info, and just as Andrew was finishing up entering his number into my phone, Ford appeared out of the crowd.

  The expression on his face was one I’d never seen before. He looked like a caveman, stalking aggressively toward us, his eyes shifting between me and Andrew. When he reached me, he put his arm around my waist, pulling me close.

  Definitely caveman behavior.

  “Ford,” I said, trying to smooth things over. “This is Andrew Apellido. He’s the editor-in-chief of a magazine in New York.”

  “Oh?” Ford gave Andrew a glare, lifting his hand to stroke my shoulder possessively.

  “We were talking about work opportunities,” I said pointedly.

  “Is that so,” Ford said, sounding skeptical.

  I didn’t like my husband’s tone. I didn’t like his meatheaded show of ownership over me. And I really didn’t like how rude he was being to Andrew.

  “This is my husband, Ford Malone,” I said to Andrew, hoping he would understand.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Andrew said coolly, giving Ford a terse nod.

  He responded with, “I appreciate you keeping my wife company while I was busy. I can take it from here.” So dismissive. Like he was just shooing Andrew away.

  Seriously? I’d been standing around by myself all night, but of course, this is what finally got Ford’s attention. Another man chatting me up. I shot Andrew a look that I hoped expressed my apology for my husband’s behavior.

  “Emzee,” Andrew said with a gentle smile. “It was lovely meeting you and having a chance to talk about art. I hope we’ll connect again soon. Ford—”

  “Goodbye,” Ford said pointedly, with a condescending smile on his face.

  Andrew raised a brow, and I felt Ford go tense next to me.

  Thankfully, Andrew excused himself before my husband could make a scene.

  Still, the damage had been done. I was beyond humiliated at my husband’s behavior.

  As soon as Andrew was out of sight, I shrugged off Ford’s arm and walked away.

  Ford

  Chapter 14

  What the hell had happened at the party?

  As I drove us home, tense and silent, all I could do was replay the events of the night in my head, over and over again, trying to figure out when—and how—everything had turned to such shit.

  Emzee and I had walked into the gallery, which I knew for a fact she’d been excited to check out, and the first person we ran into had been my colleague Xavier from the Malone Real Estate offices across town. After chatting for a minute, I’d turned to formally introduce my wife, only to find that she’d disappeared. Which was a little awkward for me, sure, but I figured she’d just been so excited about the photography on display that she had slipped away to check it out.

  I’d never had a problem flying solo at schmooze-fests such as these, so I’d taken off on my own to begin my rounds with the guests—assuming Emzee would catch up with me once she’d soaked in some of the art.

  Which had reminded me, I really owed her a proper date of some kind. Newlyweds went on dates, didn’t they? Someplace cool but cultured, where Em could scratch that artistic itch of hers, get fired up about light and shadow and all that. I knew what she liked.

  Soon enough, I was in the thick of it all. In my element. At some point, I guess I got so caught up in the socializing that I lost track of time, because suddenly I checked my Breitling and it was an hour later and Emzee was still conspicuously MIA. To the point where I was getting annoyed at having to make excuses for her absence to everyone who inquired about my new wife. Not to mention all the roasting I endured, the jokes about how she must be sick of being married to me already. Ha fucking ha.

  And then I’d heard Emzee’s laugh. That infectious, irrepressible laugh of hers, ringing out clear across the room. It froze me in my tracks, and I spun toward the sound with a smile already on my face—only to be met with the infuriating sight of my wayward wife, mid-flirt. Huddled in a corner mere inches away from some mouth-breathing New Yorker.

  Fucking Andrew Apellido. Who did this guy he think he was?

  It was obvious what had been on his mind while he’d been cozying up to Emzee. Even from across the room, his body language was unmistakable. He wanted her. And it had nothing to do with her photography, no matter what Emzee had tried to tell me. That asshole had been standing there undressing my wife with his eyes, getting off on presenting himself as someone who could actually help her career. I knew the type all too well.

  Not that I could blame him for trying. Even in a plain black dress and heels, Emzee was a total fucking knockout. Her tits looked distractingly plump in that tight dress, and the heels she wore made me want to wrap her legs around my neck. I’d spent most of the night trying not to think about pulling her into some empty back room, shoving her dress up to her hips and fucking her over a table the way I’d done in the conference room at DRM.

  That had been a hot, yet pleasant surprise. I’d never expected my shy wife to come on to me at her office, and I definitely hadn’t expected her to be so into it.

  “You gonna text Andrew as soon as we get home?” I asked, glancing
over at her.

  Emzee didn’t say a word, remaining as silent and sullen as she’d been ever since I had pulled her out of the gallery and told her we were going home early.

  “You know why he gave you his number, right?” I ribbed. I couldn’t help myself. The scumbag had gotten under my skin. “It’s not just a job that he’s hoping to give you.”

  She turned her head farther toward the window, and I could see that her hands were balled up into fists. Guess she was even more furious than I’d thought. I’d been hoping we could just bang it out once we got home, but as I turned into the parking structure of my building, she let out an angry huff, and I realized she wasn’t going to just spontaneously get over the bug that had crawled up her ass. She was obviously spoiling for a fight.

  Or worse—a Talk.

  Emzee started up the moment we were alone in the elevator.

  “Your behavior tonight was completely unacceptable.”

  “My behavior?” I scoffed.

  “Yes.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My behavior was unacceptable? Okay, so maybe I’d been a little possessive when I first went over to her, but how else was I supposed to react to seeing my wife yucking it up with that sleazy piece of garbage?

  “What about yours?” I shot back. “How do you think it looks for my wife to be cozying up to another man?”

  The look on her face had me stepping back. We arrived at our floor and had barely gotten through the door of the apartment before Emzee was at my throat again.

  “Although it’s flattering that you assume any conversation I’m having with a man involves him trying to hook up with me, it’s also incredibly insulting,” she seethed. “Networking is conversation. Professional circles involve men and women conversing together all the time. Often over drinks! You can’t act like a petty jealous husband every time that happens. Because it will happen. We’re supposed to be a power couple, right? That implies that we both have power. Reputations. Careers.”

  Even though her face was red when she finished, I couldn’t help admiring how passionately she’d argued her case. Not that I thought she was right.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “But I don’t see why you thought it needed to happen at my event. When you’re a power couple, you support each other. You should have been on my arm.”

  I felt like a caveman, trying to explain myself but feeling frustrated and upset at how Emzee seemed to be slipping away before my eyes. And right when things were starting to get good between us, when we’d found a rhythm and a schedule that kept our lives copacetic.

  “You bailed on me the second we walked into that party,” I went on. “Do you have any idea how much shit I got from my colleagues for having a runaway wife?”

  “This is about your dumb male pride?” Emzee narrowed her eyes.

  “No,” I said. “It’s about you showing up for me. Which apparently you aren’t all that interested in, when it comes right down to it.”

  Munchkin had barreled into the room in the midst of our fighting, and now he was anxiously prancing at our feet, letting out pathetic little whines of distress. Emzee crouched down to soothe him before straightening up to her full (but minimal) height again.

  “Firstly, I tried to be on your arm,” she said, scowling. “But you ignored me. I don’t think you even noticed I was missing, you were so busy kissing ass—or don’t you remember that? Second of all, you can’t cockblock my future opportunities. Part of respecting me, which you claim you do, means understanding that my life will go on after our little agreement is over. Once this year is up, I’m going to have a whole life of my own to go back to, and part of that life will probably include new opportunities that I’ll want to pursue. Professionally and personally.”

  I was fuming. Was she not feeling any of the same things I was, then? And why did she have to keep bringing up next year? Constantly reminding me that this marriage had an expiration date, like our divorce couldn’t come quickly enough for her.

  Regardless of our marital status, I hated thinking that other men were flirting with her—and I hated even more that she seemed to be counting down the days until she could actually do something about it. Because I knew for a fact that Andrew Apellido had been making a pass at Emzee, even if she didn’t realize the truth. I’d recognized that look in his eyes. I was a guy, and I knew how guys thought. I had probably intervened just in time.

  Emzee was mine.

  Even if she wasn’t mine.

  “Look, Em—”

  “No. I’m done talking to you right now,” she cut me off.

  Then she scooped up Munchkin and stormed off to the guest room, leaving me angry and horny and confused. Why the hell did I feel this way? Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut and let Em do her thing? Was I really so jealous over that dickbag from New York? Maybe our friends-with-benefits situation just wasn’t doing it for me any longer.

  Maybe I needed something more.

  Emzee didn’t come to bed that night. I lay there for a while, waiting, but finally accepted that she was staying in the other room. She’d been editing photos in there and ignoring me every time I poked my head in the door to attempt a conversation.

  When I tried to sleep, I could only toss and turn.

  Fuck this. I’m going to win her, I decided.

  Regardless of what happened next, I wasn’t going down without a fight. I was a Malone, and when a Malone wanted something, they sure as hell got it.

  Emzee would see. I was going to become the only man she had eyes for, in any room. I’d make sure that when we were together, she would be on my arm, at my side. Scum like Andrew Apellido wouldn’t even dare look at her while she was with me, and they certainly wouldn’t try to steal her away with their shitty business cards and false promises of helping her career.

  I was going to make Emzee mine. Now and for always.

  No matter the cost.

  Emzee

  Chapter 15

  Days later, my anger at Ford had faded but still not completely dissipated.

  Things between us were more or less civil, but there was a new distance that hadn’t been there before. Gone were the cozy, shared breakfasts with classic jazz playing softly in the background, and though we still had our evening walks with Munchkin—as safe as the neighborhood was, Ford refused to let me go by myself—they were no longer a chance for us to laugh and catch up with each other while strolling with casually linked arms.

  Admittedly, it was mostly my fault. I was blatantly avoiding my husband. Working as much as possible, leaving in the morning before he woke up and getting home far past dinner time, communicating with him only when necessary and using one-word responses, going to bed early in the guest room where I’d set up camp for the foreseeable future.

  I had assumed today would be exactly the same agonizing routine all over again. But when I got home from a DRM photoshoot early enough to take Munchkin for a pre-sundown walk, I found that the apartment was in the middle of a reformation.

  The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was almost like a chemical, or—

  “Careful,” Ford said, coming out of the bedroom with a leashed Munchkin in his arms. “I think the paint is still wet.”

  I walked into the living room, gaping at the walls, which had been repainted a beautiful, muted shade of cool, grayish blue—exactly as I had suggested. It contrasted beautifully with the warm leather of the sofa and lightened up the entire room. And then I looked over at the mantel and let out a gasp at what I saw.

  “It’s always been one of my favorites—I hope you like it hung up there,” Ford said.

  Hanging over the fireplace was a huge, blown-up copy of a photo that I had taken years ago on a spring break trip to Serbia, where the Zoric family originally emigrated from.

  “Subotica, right?” Ford asked. “I thought it would be cool to have something Serbian around here to look at. So you can have your own stamp on things.”

  The city of Subotica was known for
its swooping, fairy tale-esque architecture and soft pastel-colored buildings, city halls, and churches. I had adored the place even before stepping off the train with Emiko, one of my art school friends, and we had both taken tons of pictures—especially of the Raichle Palace, a gorgeous Art Nouveau confection of arched windows, lacy iron balconies, mosaic tiles, and peachy pink and cobalt façades. It had been converted into an art gallery, and I spent an entire day wandering around by myself in there. I was way more interested in snapping photos of the architecture than in paying attention to any of the art.

  Afterward, I’d dragged my exhausted self to meet back up with Emiko at Boss Caffe. We got a table on the outdoor patio under a shady canopy of trees and gorged ourselves on steaks with gorgonzola sauce and a sampling of desserts—pistachio cake, baklava with pear sorbet, a decadent chocolate torte, and šomloi galuška. It had been a perfect, unforgettable day.

  “Was it not a good choice?” Ford asked, startling me out of my memories. He sounded concerned. “I can put something else up if you want—”

  “No, no. It’s perfect,” I murmured, still choked up. “I love it.”

  “Great. I made a few other changes, too,” Ford said. “Come see.”

  He handed Munchkin to me and I followed him as he pointed out the now floral-less bathroom, the tossed-out gold pillows, the general removal of all things overtly Claudia.

  As we turned the corner into the den, I braced myself for facetime with the painting I hated so much, but to my shock, it was gone.

  “Where’d the Le Comte go?” I asked suspiciously, eyes darting around as if I expected the thing to jump out at me from behind a piece of furniture.

  “I had it moved into storage. I thought we could find something new to go there,” he said.

  I stood there for a minute, tongue-tied. This was the last thing I had expected to come home to. “But—I thought you loved the way your apartment looked before,” I sputtered.