by Stella Gray
I’d even hoped that a night out apart from Emzee would be a nice break for both of us. A chance to catch our breath. After all, there was a reason for the saying, “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” wasn’t there? Surely a few hours on our own would be good for both of us.
Hell, maybe my wife would even be jealous enough to make the sex tonight completely over-the-top as compensation. The eye daggers she’d been throwing at Claudia all day hadn’t escaped my notice. And I knew the long standing envy that Emzee felt toward my ex hadn’t resolved itself much, if at all, since we’d tied the knot.
But instead of giving me an opportunity to relish my temporary freedom or enjoy the company of my old friends, all this evening was doing was making me realize that I wanted something different from my life these days. That now, my idea of a “fun drink” was getting overly tipsy with Emzee on some fancy restaurant’s house wine before taking her home to fuck. Not sitting in a loud, overcrowded, “exclusive” club hanging out with a bunch of self-absorbed people who hadn’t changed since high school.
That now, my idea of a good conversation involved planning for the future—a future beyond—
“OMG!” Roxana was squealing, reaching across me to take the fresh drink our cocktail waitress had brought over. “You haven’t been to the new resort in Anguilla yet? It’s so amazing. You have to go! The spa does these gold foil facials…”
“Ahh, incredible. I’ve been meaning to book it,” Claudia said. She kept leaning over me to talk to Roxana, her hand brushing my thigh each time.
I didn’t want to be here. I was fucking bored.
Especially with Claudia.
During the tours earlier, I’d had a bit of fun letting her flirt with me. I knew it bugged the shit out of Emzee, but I couldn’t resist the ego boost, and watching Claudia fall all over herself for me (after years of unbalanced power dynamics between us and her pulling the stone cold bitch act) was satisfying on some deep level. Plus, I’d figured there was no real harm in it. The flirting wasn’t exactly reciprocal on my part, and my marriage was fake, after all.
Now that Emzee was gone, though, I was starting to seriously regret how I’d behaved, because I realized how much her feelings might actually be hurt. And after all my vows to woo her and win her. God, I could be such an ass sometimes.
Not only that, but sitting here surrounded by the old gang, I was also starting to remember exactly how insufferable these social obligations could be—especially with Claudia at my side. My ex had always, always, always been more interested in people seeing her as an aspirational figure than in actually being a good person. It was grating on my nerves.
For example, the way she had started off the evening by bragging to the table about how she’d generously donated her time today to help a nonprofit organization that was “simply helpless” at throwing their own fundraiser. It had my stomach turning from the get-go.
And now, she was basically hanging all over me while she gabbed with Roxana, yet she showed absolutely no interest in talking to me, only in being seen with me. I was her accessory for the evening. Or maybe her pet, given the fact that she couldn’t stop patting and stroking me like one. Typical Claudia behavior.
It was not cool.
I was so glad to be done with her, done with being treated like a prop. Not that I hadn’t done the same to her when we dated. I knew how we’d looked together—we were one of the hot young power couples of Chicago—but like my whole former lifestyle, I was over it. And I was glad I’d only had one drink, hours earlier. Sobriety was really bringing things into sharp focus.
“Claudia,” I said, peeling her hand off my arm to get her attention.
She was giggling away with Roxana, who looked like she was about one Ciroc and tonic away from sliding onto the floor and passing out.
“Claudia,” I said again, firmly enough that she leaned back with an annoyed look.
“What?”
“I need to talk to you. Privately,” I told her.
“Perfect!” she said, brightening. “Let’s take a picture together. We’d get so many likes.”
Just another reminder that the rest of the world was nothing more than a backdrop for her social media accounts. She probably only wanted to post a photo so Emzee would see it.
There was no way I could stand another five minutes with Claudia, let alone the countless minutes it would take her to get a good enough photo. That’s how we’d spent all of our trips. Capturing the best-looking moments for Claudia to flaunt later. They were never planned around what we wanted to see, but where she wanted to be seen.
“I’m not taking a picture with you,” I told her flatly, steering her into a semi-quiet corner near the club’s restrooms.
She pouted. She was still beautiful when she pouted (I had always theorized that it was something she’d perfected by practicing in the mirror), but I was immune to that now.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “Emzee’s not here. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Pretend what?”
“That you don’t like this.” She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear as her hand slid up over my chest.
“Claudia, you have to stop flirting with me,” I said, gently pushing her away.
She laughed. “Why? You love it when I’m all over you,” she said. “Especially in public, so everyone can see how good we look together.”
Once upon a time, she would have been correct. This was exactly how we used to act when we were out in public together. I’d liked people knowing that I was fucking someone as beautiful and well regarded as Claudia, and she liked people knowing that she was dating someone as wealthy and well-connected as me. It had been a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Until it wasn’t anymore.
“You and I aren’t together anymore, Claudia,” I chastised her. “I’m a married man. You need to respect that.”
Instead of taking me seriously, she put her hand back on my chest and let out a fake-sounding laugh, waving at Roxana across the club as if the two of us were having some great conversation, not an awkward argument. Typical Claudia. Again.
I pried her hand off me, huffing a sigh of annoyance. “I’m with my wife now. Okay?”
“Are you, really?” She leaned back and narrowed her eyes at me, making true eye contact for the first time since we’d walked through the door of the club. “Because…you aren’t with your wife now. You’re with me.”
And for the first time, I saw exactly what Claudia was seeing.
She was right.
I’d fucked up.
I stood there, surrounded by loud music and overpriced cocktails and people I barely knew anymore—people I didn’t really like, if I was honest—and let the realization sink in.
Claudia had played me.
Or rather, I’d fucking played myself.
Yeah, I had hoped to make Emzee jealous, but maybe I had gone too far. In fact, now that I really thought about it, the look on her face in the lobby of the Peninsula had been a little too cheery to be real. And yeah, I’d better go home and fix this. Stat.
I looked at Claudia, took in the smug, self-satisfied smirk, the raised brow.
“You’re right,” I told her. “I should be with my wife. I’m leaving.”
“What?” My words were clearly not what she’d been expecting.
“See you around,” I said.
I strode out of the club, not even stopping by the table to say goodbye to anyone else.
Once the valet brought my car around, I took off, tires screeching. The entire drive home, I racked my brain for ways I could make this up to Emzee, for all the ways I could apologize. Flowers, maybe, definitely a nice dinner out. Maybe take Munchkin for a doggie spa day.
When I got back to the apartment, I took a deep breath, unlocked the front door, and…found the place dark and quiet.
I figured Emzee had just gone to bed, but I didn’t hear Munchkin either. Usually he would come out to greet me, tail wagging, no matter how lat
e it was.
Nothing.
“Em? Emzee?” I called out.
I went into the bedroom and found the bed still made from earlier this morning. Then I checked the guest room. Empty. The office. Empty. The whole apartment was empty.
All that remained was a note that I finally found stuck to the fridge with a magnet.
Going to a business convention in NY with my brothers, it said. Munchkin staying with Brooklyn for the weekend. Back on Monday. –MZ
My wife was gone, and she’d taken the dog with her.
Emzee
Chapter 21
Since Ford had no problem ditching me to go party it up with Claudia and the mean girls, I figured I might as well do my own thing too and be with the people I loved most—my family.
But it just so happened that my brothers were spending the weekend at the Borderless Business Convention in New York. So that was where I had ended up.
After Ford had taken Claudia’s arm and left me in the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel, I’d called Stefan and jumped into action. By the time I’d packed myself a bag and gathered up Munchkin to drop off with Brooklyn, Stefan’s assistant had already booked me a late flight into JFK and a hotel room at the convention center.
I arrived at the hotel with just enough time to shower and roll into bed, completely exhausted. The next morning I took advantage of a quick room service breakfast and then headed down to the convention floor to meet my brothers.
“Glad you could make it,” Stefan said, giving me a quick squeeze before handing me my nametag lanyard. “Nice suit by the way.”
“Thanks. It’s Alexander McQueen.” This was my first big business convention, and I was relieved the dark plaid met with his approval.
“Rock’n’roll aesthetic on point as usual,” Luka said as we strolled past the booths. “What made you change your mind about the convention?”
Shrugging, I fibbed, “Just thought it would be good to do a little networking outside of the greater Chicago area. Plus, it’s New York. You know I’m mostly here for the pizza.”
They laughed, and we got into a brief but heated debate over the merits of Chicago deep dish vs. New York style pies. It was great seeing them, even though I knew I’d probably be on my own for most of the day.
After making loose dinner plans, we split up. Just as I’d suspected, they both had lots of meetings and seminars on their schedules and all the usual industry people to visit with. Meanwhile, I was tasked with exploring the convention floor to suss out if there were any new connections to be made—particularly outside of the agenting world, since Danica Rose already had those networks covered.
At first, I felt pretty useless.
By 9 a.m., the convention center was packed. I was doing everything I could to fend off my anxiety as I wove my way down rows of buzzing booths, reminding myself to smile at every passing stranger. Large, noisy crowds always made me feel small. Like I was an awkward teenager in school again, wondering if every aside or giggle was about me.
What made it even harder to concentrate on my deep breathing (and generally acting professional) was that all I could think about was Ford. How his night out with Claudia had gone, and whether he’d even made it home afterward. Maybe they hadn’t even made it to the bar for Roxana’s birthday. Maybe the “birthday” was just an excuse for them to run off together.
Trying to shake off my worries, I dragged myself to the keynote address. Then I went to a panel on search engine optimization, after which I wolfed down a bagel in the food court while checking my phone for the umpteenth time, but of course there was still nothing from Ford.
Why hadn’t he called or texted me by now, even just to say he’d gotten my note? What was he doing? I was sick at the possibility that he’d slept with Claudia—and that I was at least partly to blame.
Had I done the wrong thing by leaving town? Had I pushed my husband and his ex back together by refusing to be a part of Ford’s lifestyle? I still couldn’t believe how brazen Claudia had been in her flirting—but the thing that really hurt was how Ford hadn’t seemed to mind at all. And how, ultimately, it didn’t matter how flirty they’d gotten or how inappropriate their behavior was. Because Ford wasn’t really mine.
I needed to get that through my head once and for all.
Okay. Chin up. Time to focus on the task at hand: promoting Danica Rose. Not zoning out during every seminar I could duck into and mooning over my fake husband.
Or maybe I should just track down my brothers and see about tagging along with them. That would keep me on my toes. I’d just step out to the lobby and give Stefan a call.
Whipping around abruptly, I walked right into someone, bouncing off a hard male chest.
“Well, if it isn’t the last person I expected to bump into here,” an amused voice said. “You okay?”
I looked up—right into the deep blue eyes of Andrew Apellido, of lookingglass magazine. “Andrew!” I exclaimed, immediately comforted by his familiar face. “How are you?”
“Even better than I was five seconds ago,” he said. “Delighted to see you, Emzee.”
He gave me a hug and I returned it, though I wondered if his excitement in seeing me wasn’t solely because he was interested in talking business.
“You should have told me you were in New York,” he said. “There’s nothing I love more than showing off my city to people from out of town.”
“It was a last-minute decision,” I said. “I didn’t know I was coming until last night.”
“A great decision, in my opinion,” he said. “These conferences are always hit or miss, but when you have the right person to explore them with, they can be a whole lot of fun.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “Prove it. I’m totally overwhelmed.”
Andrew grinned. “See now, we can easily fix that. Drink? The lobby bar is great.”
If I couldn’t save my marriage or even my relationship with Ford, I was at least going to do what I could to keep my professional career afloat. Plus, I liked the guy.
“I’m in,” I said.
I was grateful to get out of the crowd and retreat to the bar, which was much quieter and calmer than I’d expected.
“My brothers love your magazine,” I told Andrew once we’d gotten our drinks.
“I appreciate it,” he said. “But I’m much more interested in hearing what you think about my magazine.”
He was clearly flirting, but he also seemed genuinely interested.
“I’m a fan,” I said. “From what I’ve seen, I think it has a lot of potential. Beyond just the images, the articles are thought provoking, almost like what Playboy used to publish. It could really make some waves, depending on what direction you take it in.”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” He took a sip of his drink, a simple tequila on the rocks. “My goal is to create the kind of magazine that everyone talks about. Publish work that’s risky—to shock and inspire our readers, make sure we’re a magazine everyone knows.”
“I’m into that,” I said. It aligned exactly with the vision I had for my own work. I craved the freedom to push boundaries, to try new things without fearing rejection from the mainstream.
“I want us to tackle the tough issues!” Andrew went on. “Not shy away from discussing what’s controversial or intense. I want to be controversial. How would you like to spend thirty days documenting the effects of climate change right here in America’s backyards, for instance?”
Nodding, I said, “Love to. It’s too easy for people to ignore photos of melting icebergs.”
“Exactly! You have to be more immediate. Get in people’s faces a little bit, or a lot.”
I was so inspired by his words, my mind had already begun churning with all the ways I could contribute.
“My brother was floored by the piece about European influence here in the States,” I said. “Photo essays have the potential for incredible impact. Have you thought about pairing writers and photographers together during
development? To make the projects more cohesive.”
Andrew looked at me intently. “You know, what I really need is a photography editor-in-chief of sorts, someone who understands the role of images in storytelling. Who can work closely with me to make sure the visual needs of our stories are met.”
My stomach was doing little somersaults. It was as if Andrew had just created my dream job out of nowhere. The thought of working with writers and photographers to craft narratives was exactly the kind of thing I was passionate about.
“What else are you thinking?” he asked before ordering us another round of drinks.
I pulled out my phone. I didn’t want to obsess, but I couldn’t stop myself—nothing from Ford. I tried to ignore my disappointment as I pulled up the magazine’s Instagram feed.
“You could be doing so much more with your social media presence,” I told him.
“Sure, of course.” He leaned forward to look at my screen. “Like what?”
“For one,” I said, “you should divide your Instagram feed. One can be devoted to promoting the articles, as it is now. But then another should be purely photo. Eye candy.”
I almost volunteered to manage it, but caught myself before I could offer. No matter what was happening with me and Ford, I’d agreed to stay married to him for at least a year and I was going to stick to that promise. No relocating to New York just yet.
But that didn’t mean I couldn’t start planting the seeds for the future.
“Brilliant,” Andrew said. “You really know your stuff.”
“I just love photography,” I said.
I reached to take my phone back, but he was looking at my own IG account now. It was mostly travel photos, beautiful plates of food, and Munchkin.
“Ever thought about taking your own advice?” Andrew said with a smile. “Don’t get me wrong, these are great—but you could be showing off your real work on your page. Go public.”
