We’ll survive this.
I hope.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Hit Me With Your Best Shot
February 2007
“Mr. Santo,” Sasha’s assistant urges, “you can’t go in. Let me tell Ms. Stafford you’re here.” I can hear the panic in her voice, but I don’t have it in me to be concerned.
I barrel through Sasha’s office doors and the shock on her face quickly turns to a wicked sneer. She knows why I’m here. That much is evident in my devil-may-care presence. This bitch might be getting what she wants, but I don’t have to be happy about it. “Sasha,” I growl after some time standing just inside her office doors glowering at her.
With a look, Sasha dismisses her assistant standing behind me. I don’t see her, but I know she’s gone when I hear the doors close. Still sporting the wicked sneer, “Diego.” I’m sure it’s supposed to sound like a purr, but she’s a snake in the grass and it registers as a hiss. “What brings you here?” she gestures to her office space with that smug knowing look.
“You know why I’m here, Sasha.”
“You missed me. I knew you couldn’t resist.” The bitch plays coy about as well as Paris Hilton plays genius.
“Cut the bullshit, Sasha. It’s done. Now let’s get this going. The sooner you get what you want the sooner it’ll be over.”
“That’s adorable. You think this is temporary.”
What the fuck? I can’t disguise my shock.
“Oh,” there’s no disguising her delight. “You really did think there was an end to all this. Bless your heart.”
My fingers wrap around her neck. The solution to this problem is simple: she stops breathing, the problem goes away. She gasps for air and the sound sends a shot of warmth through my heart and body. I squeeze a little tighter; I can feel her throat giving under my grip. At least this way, Izzy can be spared the pain Sasha intends to inflict with her farce of us being in a relationship.
“Diego,” I hear the irritation in Sasha’s voice. I must have been lost in the daydream for longer than she liked. I’m disappointed that I didn’t get to see the lights in her eyes die before I was brought back to reality. Next time.
Something slams in the office and I realize I’ve drifted from reality again. The glare from Sasha confirms it.
“Let’s get this over with, Sasha. There aren’t any more games to be played. I’m here. You won.” I’m anxious for her to reveal her master plan again. The digital recording device in my pocket might be there in vain, but I can’t avoid the hope it sparks. I’m sure that someone like Sasha that plays these games covers her ass, but you never know until you try.
Sasha releases a soft sigh. “Okay, Diego. We’ll get down to business…for now. As I mentioned in our last meeting, you’re going to be my plus one at the charity event this weekend, but really that’s just the beginning of our affair.” She’s pleased with her word choice because it makes me shudder noticeably. “I want the world to believe you’re mine. This time of year is busy for me. Lots and lots of events. You will go as my lover.” She takes pleasure in my discomfort. “To all of them. There’s—”
“Sasha, just tell me what it is you want from this fucking farce. You’ve got me by the balls. I won’t ruin more lives just to preserve my marriage.” Saying those words was like swallowing a mouthful of glass. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save my marriage. Including pretending it’s over to catch you.
Under different circumstances, I’d say the big smile that spreads across Sasha’s face was sweet. But as things stand, it’s alarming and disconcerting. “You.” It’s one word. It both angers and confuses me. “I don’t think you understand, so I’ll explain.” She gestures for me to move from my place just inside her office. I take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk, very deliberately ignoring her invitation to sit in the more intimate couch area.
“Do you know anything about trust funds, Diego?” I shake my head no. “While I have plenty of money to live on for the rest of my life, there is a fair amount inaccessible to me.” She delivers those last few words with an audible pout.
“What the fuck does that have to do with me?” I wish the bitch would just spit it out.
“Everything.”
Her dramatic pauses are fucking annoying. “Just fucking talk already.”
“I’ll overlook the attitude. It must be heartbreaking to have your marriage end. What did you tell Izzy?”
I don’t answer. She won’t get shit about Izzy from me.
“Doesn’t matter. She’ll realize the reason soon enough.” When she gets nothing from me, she leans back in her chair and continues, “There’s a trust fund that, when originally set up, I could have accessed at thirty years old. When I was twenty-five, Mother decided it wasn’t enough to simply turn thirty. My father agreed because he was a mindless fool where she was concerned. So, the trust now stipulates that I must be married. I—”
“You could get any number of fools to marry you, Sasha. Why blackmail a married man?”
“Consider it a compliment. There’s no one quite like you, Diego. I’ve played this game a time or two, but the men were always so eager. Married or not, they didn’t hesitate.” She shrugs. “At least until the wife or girlfriend started asking questions he couldn’t answer. Most ended their relationships to continue our affair, but where’s the fun in that?”
“Still not seeing how I fit in,” I growl through clenched teeth. “You’re not seriously expecting me to marry you, are you? I’d sooner quit playing football, Sasha. Forever.”
“So melodramatic. And of course, you will marry me. In fact, I’d wager my entire trust fund that you’ll be on bended knee popping the question.”
The woman is seriously off her rocker. “Yeah, that’ll happen…never.” But Sasha remains unaffected. She truly believes what she’s saying.
“How long is your contract with London United, Diego?” She asks a question to which she already knows the answer.
“Oh for fuck’s sake! Sasha, you know goddamn well how long my contract is for. You were there when I signed it.” I shake my head. “Four years. Four years of you and then I’m done.”
“I’m thinking a lifetime plus two to three kids,” she fires back.
Sirens and warning bells are going off in my head as my vision is hazed in red. “If you think I’m putting my dic—”
“Now, now, Diego. Don’t say something you’ll live to regret. I’ve tolerated your undisciplined and fractious mouth up until now, but I still have photos you’d rather the world and a couple of ‘mates you’d prefer didn’t see. It’s time to start acting as if you understand I’m deadly serious about what I want and the lengths I’m willing to go to get it.
“Why I’ve decided you’re to be the future Mr. Sasha Stafford is of no consequence. I want it. However, the marriage contingency says the funds are available in increments based on years married. I like you. I think I could like you for a lifetime. So, unless you want your sordid affair with the wives of Levi Thoen and Robert Connolly world news, you’ll keep that tongue of yours leashed.”
Have to keep her talking. If there’s a chance in hell she hasn’t considered the possibility of a recording device, I need her to say it. “So, there’s more to the blackmail than just destroying my marriage and becoming your reluctant and only for appearances lover.” I shudder with the last word. It’s amazing how a depraved woman could make a beautiful and meaningful word into one that tests your gag reflexes and threatens to empty your stomach.
“Blackmail is such an ugly word. Sure, I’m threatening to expose pictures of you, but as I said before, I’m really just helping you right a wrong. You were meant to be a king. Izzy is no queen.” When she says Izzy’s name, murderous rage runs through my veins. It feels as if my blood will boil and at any moment, one or both of us wil
l cease to exist. “I, on the other hand, was born to be a queen and with a snap of my fingers you can and will be my king.” A copper taste fills my mouth and I realize that in my attempts to keep my rage in check, I’ve bitten both cheek and tongue. The salty, bitter, metal flavor serves as a numbing agent to my mind and body. What Sasha says next is lost to me. I feel like my world is spinning out of control and I wonder if we’ll really survive this. Her. Sasha.
As the metallic taste dissipates, so does its deafening effect. “So, Diego, I’ll be very clear. You. Are. Mine.” She must register the defiance in my change of posture, “I can be patient. Those pictures aren’t my only weapons,” she warns. “I’ll send you a schedule of events we will be attending in the months to come. Please be sure that your publicist understands that he must accept all requests from me or my staff on my behalf. Failure to comply will have disastrous results.” Her voice softens. “Give this a chance, Diego. I think you’ll see that we were meant to be.”
“Whatever the fuck ever, Sasha.” I need to leave like yesterday. This meeting has only ramped up my need to take this bitch down. Not to mention, I have this growing need to hit something. I was taught to never hit a woman, but I think Sasha could be the exception. Anyone in my situation would agree.
“But there’s still the matter of the public status of your marriage,” she trails off. “How will you be handling that?”
I choke on the bile that rose. After carefully discussing this with Izzy, I find this to be the toughest part of playing Sasha’s game. Izzy craftily worded a letter for my publicist to release to the media tomorrow morning. “It’s taken care of,” the menace in my voice undisguised. I don’t give her anything else. It really is time to go.
“Be sure that it is, lover,” she delivers with a knowing look. I shake my head. Like I could forget what she has in her possession.
As suspected, the recording device got nothing. Ken said something about white-noise. This news was more devastating than I expected. I guess I was hoping for a miracle. Anything to avoid causing Izzy any pain. Even if she knows, it’s not real. Seeing what the papers will picture and write won’t be easy and without our physical connection or closeness, a part of her might begin to believe the lies she knows her eyes are witnessing.
At six o’clock this morning, my publicist issued a statement on behalf of Izzy and me. I sit in front of the television as our statement is today’s hot topic.
“Can’t say this next story was completely unexpected. This morning Diego Santo, London United star midfielder, and his wife Izabella Santo, daughter of Alex Marino and heiress to the Knight Records, have announced their separation. The couple was recently married in Las Vegas, Nevada in the United States, after dating for nearly eight years. In their statement, the couple asks ‘for media privacy during this difficult and private time’ in their lives.”
I gulp down some of this morning’s hair of the dog: black coffee and cheap tequila. While the rest of my team is at home starting their game day routines and possibly catching my life go up in flames on international television, I have every intention of drowning the day away thanks to the red card suspension I’m currently serving. Couldn’t have planned it better if I had actually planned it. I’m in no shape or mood to see anyone. Bile burns my throat when the reporter recounts my recent ‘indiscretion.’ “If you recall, at the turn of the New Year, Diego Santo was pictured in the middle of a hot and heavy kiss with a blonde, presumably the daughter of the late William Stafford, owner of the London United. Seems ‘El Santo Feo’ has a thing for heiresses.” The bitch. I chase the bile down with another gulp of my liquid punishment. “There was also an interesting article in On the Pitch, November of last year. Our producer managed to find one of the few copies of the very rare copy of the football magazine with the now redacted article.” Ugh. The screen flashes images of the cover and article with the photos of me with Sasha. The anchor flips through the magazine before looking up and continuing. “The Man, the Myth, the Saint, and the Woman Behind Him,” she reads the article’s title. “Certainly has you wondering if the Saint will be sleeping alone for long. Up next, some shocking trades that will have some London City fans scratching their heads and Birmingham United fans celebrating. When we return.”
Before the screen can switch to the commercial, I push the power button on the remote control. I’m desperate to call Izzy, but she’s already messaged me earlier this morning.
Hi. I’m fine. I know what we’re doing here. Stop driving yourself mad with it all. Necessary evil. Right? Remember how strong WE are. Going with Mazz to breakfast. Gotta make this public.
I prodded her with questions that had no rational answers. I didn’t—I don’t, understand how she doesn’t hate me for this mess. She admitted that she was text messaging me because it was easier to be stronger without hearing my voice. Her admission sent me to the kitchen for the bottle of tequila. I had quickly replaced half the contents of my coffee mug with tequila and promptly chugged. She promised that we would talk later tonight. It took some time for her to send that message. In my response, I told her we didn’t have to talk. In my desperation, I confessed that just knowing she was on the other end of the line, the sound of her breathing, sighing, to have that connection in the midst of our manufactured separation was enough. Before we signed off from our messaging chat, Izzy settled the sourness in my stomach and gave reprieve to my heart.
Diego?
What is it bella
Ask me
I’d smiled at the request. She couldn’t see it, but I smiled. And did as she asked.
Have i told u how much i love u
How much?
Without hesitation and with a grin that belied my guilty heart, I replied.
So much so much
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Only Happy When It Rains
March 2007
It’s been about five days since we publicly stated our intent to separate. I’ve spent all of them somewhere between a constant state of nausea and numb. Sure, Izzy and I speak every night and I have things in place to make sure she continues to believe in us, but I can’t shake the feeling being separated from her causes. Time and distance have come between us before, but not like this.
Tonight may actually be the hardest night in our nearly nine years together. Tonight is the first of many events with Sasha. As agreed upon, my assistant and publicist were instructed to adjust my calendar to accept all social engagements from Sasha. She wasted no time and filled almost every available free-day with something. I’m sure she’s doing her best to make certain finding time with Izzy would be nigh impossible. Smart if I didn’t think the woman was a vile, heartless, entitled bitch. Instead, it’s just manipulative and slightly disheartening.
I really hope I can keep Izzy focused on what’s real.
Sasha said to be ready at a quarter to five. It’s now ten after and I’m finally slipping on the jacket to this monkey suit. I didn’t bother with doing more than running my hands through my hair. Didn’t see the point in shaving. I scrub my hands over the three-day stubble. Me without Izzy will be—is—less than. The suite phone is ringing for the millionth time. I’m certain it’s Sasha because the corresponding text messages on my cell phone have run the gamut from, “You’re late,” “Don’t keep me waiting,” to “Answer the phone,” “Do I need to remind you of your obligations?” I swallow the rest of the Redbreast I’d poured. I actually finished the first two fingers (or four) as part of my pre-game show.
The phone is still ringing as I exit my suite. She can wait until I’m down there. I chuckle a little as I enter the empty elevator. I explained to all those in charge of the hotel that under no circumstances was Sasha Stafford allowed onto my floor. Considering an access card must be used to even select the floor in the elevator it should be a simple enough task. She can blackmail me all she
wants, but when the lights are off and no one is looking she will not be in the dark with me. Ever.
Fuck Sasha and her never-ending lecture on my obligations. The woman spent the entire length of the trip to the charity’s venue reminding me of the power she holds over me and when she was blue in the face, I simply told her, “I’m fucking here. If you’d like to end this charade because I kept you waiting, by all means…have at it, but that’s it. No more this,” I gestured between us. “Whatever the fuck this is. So my career’s over. I’ll move my ass back to the States and spend the rest of my life trying to make things right with my wife.”
I reveled in taking her by surprise. Whether it was my challenge to destroy me or the fact that I referred to Izzy as my wife, the collectedness in her eyes and mouth were replaced with shock and awe. Her consternation was short-lived, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
The event was well covered by the media inside and the paparazzi on the out. On our way in, Sasha felt it was necessary to stop and pose and entertain the obvious questions. While she simply smiled and quirked up her eyebrows at questions about the validity of the New Year’s photo, she was all too delighted to chime in when the questions turned towards our new romance. She’d quip about being “football’s power couple,” bring up how much “Daddy just loved Diego,” then she’d take my arm and add, “What’s not to love?”
I don’t know what concerned me more: the exorbitant amount of pictures being taken or the words that will appear next to them in tonight’s late edition rags or every rag tomorrow morning. Regardless, every touch, every look of adoration, brought a bitter taste to my mouth and on more than one occasion I found myself choking down the bile her ministrations brought up.
Love Needs Another Chance (Truth About Love #3) Page 17
