by Stella Gray
I realize we’re low on lettuce, too. And coffee creamer. And eggs. All the essentials.
With a groan, I shut the fridge and make a mental shopping list. Might as well get more vodka while I’m out, too. I certainly owe it to Shay since she won’t let me throw in for rent.
Just then, my phone pings with a text. My heart skips a beat and my stomach twinges with a flutter of hope. Disgusted with myself for hoping it might be my husband, I grab a glass of water, taking my time before checking to see who texted me. Ah. It’s Mateo.
At a shoot, but I heard about the Luka thing today. Chin up, girl.
My heart rate skyrockets as I read the message over again, completely confused. I know better than to expect a reply when Mateo’s working, but I text back anyway: What Luka thing??
His reply comes back right away. Oh shit. Can’t talk rn, will call you as soon as we wrap up. xoxoxxoxo
What is it, Mat? Just tell me.
There’s no response. I take a deep breath and stare into space for a minute, realizing I’ve been way too absent from the world—and social media. But burying my head in the sand is the only thing that’s been keeping me sane. Is Luka already dating someone else? Was he seen out and about with Monica? Did he release a statement about our impending divorce?
There’s no point speculating right now, and I’m sure as hell not ready to turn on the news until I have a fresh drink in my hand. Guess that means it’s time to get out of the apartment.
After changing out of the yoga pants and ratty T-shirt I’ve been wearing for the last two days, I pull a baseball hat over my messy ponytail and de-grease my face with a quick swipe of loose powder, applying a few drops of liquid lip and cheek tint for good measure. That’s about all I have the energy for. By now, Mr. Kibbles has started running around in excited circles, anticipating our departure. I wait for him to sit still before I clip on his leash, then slip into my flip-flops and head out the door.
The sun is bright and welcoming as we step outside, a perfect antidote to my low mood. Pausing on the stoop, I take a full breath of the clean air and let the heat seep into me.
My phone starts pinging with social media notifications, but I shove it to the bottom of my bag so I can take my walk in peace. The only thing I’m interested in right now is hearing from Mateo, and he won’t be calling for a few hours. I’d rather a close friend break the news to me than have to find out about whatever’s going on with Luka via random tweets or IG posts.
Besides, I’m sure the notifications are just a bunch of shares and likes and mentions of the images of Mateo and me that exploded all over TMZ and social media—as intended—while I was in LA. The infuriating thing is, even with all the pictures and resulting chatter connected to my name, Luka never said a word to me. Not even an angry text berating me for causing detriment to the DRM image. Nothing. So I’ve taken to ignoring my social media alerts. I have zero interest in what other people have to say about my nights of hard clubbing. The only person I was trying to get at has gone radio silent. It’s obvious he couldn’t care less about what I do.
I mean yes, I was the one who asked for the divorce, but there’s still a part of me that wants Luka to wish that I’d come back. To miss me. To fight for me. The fact that he hasn’t just proves that he never loved me to begin with. Maybe we’re both better off.
There’s a little family-owned grocery store a few blocks down, and luckily, they carry alcohol and organic produce because I’m going to need a vodka twist with my dinner. Lately it feels like the only things I can manage to do successfully are stuff my face and drink.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” I promise Mr. Kibbles, clipping him to the post outside the store where the owners always keep a few bowls of fresh water. There’s a fabric awning overhead, so I know he’ll be comfortable in the shade. He gives me a sad look, then curls into a ball on the sidewalk and rests his head on his paws.
When I go inside the market, it’s quiet. I take one last look out the huge glass windows to make sure Kibby is okay, then grab the ten or so items I came for and head to the checkout line.
“How do you think Mr. Zoric will react to seeing his son take the witness stand? Was he aware beforehand that his children would be subpoenaed?”
My head snaps up as the words reach my ears. The voice sounds exactly like a news reporter asking questions. Glancing desperately around, I find a small TV sitting on a shelf behind the cashier at the checkout. I can barely see the screen thanks to the people in line in front of me, but I can tell it’s set to the local news. I shift to my left to see the screen better.
The ticker on the bottom says something about the Konstantin Zoric trial…son Luka set to testify during today’s proceedings.
I can feel my face go hot, my chest suddenly tight.
“Oh my God,” I murmur.
The older woman in front of me turns around and gives a knowing nod. “I’ve been following the trial for weeks, and they only announced today that the son is testifying, like it was a big secret. Can you imagine testifying against your own father?”
She made a tsk-tsk sound and shakes her head.
I can’t even respond. Mateo’s text makes perfect sense now. He must have seen something about this on the news. And my phone notifications? Probably lots of speculation around why I haven’t been spotted supporting my husband at the courthouse. My heart sinks. The rest of Luka’s family obviously knows that I’m not there. I’m too afraid to check and see if Emzee and Tori have reached out. I’m sure they’re wondering where the hell I am.
I can’t breathe.
Luka is testifying against his father and I’m not there to support him.
I never realized he’d get subpoenaed. How was I supposed to get that information? It’s not like we’re speaking, and he probably doesn’t even know I’m back from LA yet. In fact, he may have even assumed that I’d have no interest in supporting him anyway. But I would.
I will.
Of course I will.
Regardless of where we are in our relationship, I care about Luka. Deeply. My gut says I should be there right now at his side, not only to stand with him, but to hold him up.
Cursing softly under my breath, I dig some money out of my pocket. All I have is a hundred. I don’t even care about change as I cut around the line, holding my basket high as I weave through. Mid-swipe with a bag of chips in hand, the cashier looks up at me in surprise.
“I’m so sorry. I have an emergency. There’s like ten things in here. No way it adds up to more than this. Please, just keep the change. I have to go.”
I literally throw the money at her and bolt out the door, basket and all. My phone keeps pinging as I grab Mr. Kibbles, hurry back to the apartment, put him in his kennel, and change in the middle of the living room. I throw on slim dark slacks and a blouse, a pair of flats, then pull my hair into a tight bun. I don’t even bother to take the groceries out of the basket to put them away, I just push whatever’s in the fridge to the side and slide the entire basket onto the shelf.
I’m out the door with my sunglasses on the moment my Uber pulls up.
The only thing running through my mind is that I have to get to Luka. He must be so overwhelmed right now. I can’t imagine what it feels like to have to take the stand against your own father. He knew this might happen. We all did. But the lawyers said it was doubtful that it would ever come to fruition. And now, it’s happened. I silently chant for the Uber to go faster.
Luka may not want me…but in this moment, I know he needs me.
Luka
Chapter 4
The number one piece of advice Stefan and I were given by our legal team was to remain calm, collected, and self-assured during our court appearances. But no matter how many times you practice giving testimony in your head, the real-life act of getting sworn in on the stand and then grilled in front of a courtroom packed with jurors, attorneys, spectators, reporters, and the very person you’re testifying against…is an entirely different sto
ry.
My father’s defense team is made up of nothing but smooth-talking snakes, and during their cross-examination they’ve tried to discredit me at every turn. I’m sweating bullets up here.
“Mr. Zoric? Do you need me to repeat the question?”
I heard him the first time, but my mind went completely blank as I tried to formulate a response that wouldn’t ultimately hinder the prosecution.
Shifting in my seat, I look the lawyer square in the eyes. “Yes.”
“I asked: Did you have any prior knowledge of the private email account that was allegedly used by your father for communication with the young women he employed?”
Clenching my fists in my lap, I will myself to focus. I’m the final witness of the day.
“Today is the first I’ve heard of that email account,” I answer honestly, causing the lawyer’s mouth to twitch into a triumphant smirk.
All of this has been such a blur. Although Stefan and I had been prepped for the possibility of taking the witness stand, we still felt blindsided by the subpoena. Our legal team had only been served at the last minute, giving us little time to mentally prepare. I assume catching us witnesses off guard was part of the defense’s game plan all along.
Since the trial began, I was sure we’d be kept out of court—we’re not only the children of the accused, but also former employees of my father’s company. Yet here we are.
I know my testimony is crucial, but all I can think about is my wife stepping out on me. I’m torn up with rage and it’s got me off my game in the worst way possible.
On top of that, my father is sitting mere feet away. I can feel his eyes on me even though I haven’t spared him a glance since I was first brought into the courtroom hours ago. I can’t bear the thought of seeing his anger or despair at my truthful responses—or worse, the possibility of his gaze begging me to cover for him with lies.
The defense lawyer pretends to think it over. “So…would you say it’s actually possible that this email account could have been used by someone else posing as your father?”
“Objection!” the prosecutor interrupts, not for the first time. “Leading the witness.”
The judge nods. “Sustained,” she says.
As I sit through further questioning, I struggle to ignore the images flashing through my mind of Brooklyn and Mateo. Their hard partying in LA has saturated all the media outlets, and the gossip about the state of my marriage has been flying left and right.
“Mr. Zoric?” the defense attorney prods, waving a stack of pages at me. “Exhibit F?”
Fuck. Where were we? I huff out a breath. “I’ll need to look at it again.”
My wife’s extracurriculars shouldn’t be screwing with me this badly, and certainly not right now. I know better than anyone that I need to be fully on point here. But I can’t shake the distraction. It’s not just the TMZ reports or the photos of Brooklyn and Mateo leaving the Hollywood clubs and Downtown bars and restaurants. It’s the cell phone videos that bystanders took inside the clubs that show my smiling, carefree wife clinging to her boy toy all night long.
All I can see is red. I don’t know who I’m more pissed off at—her for walking out on me and running right back into Mateo’s arms, or me for falling for Brooklyn in the first place.
The defense attorney strolls in front of me and then tilts his head toward the jurors. “So, to be clear, you never personally received any emails from this account, Mr. Zoric.”
“No, I did not,” I say, handing the stack of pages back.
As much as I’d love to help incriminate my father even more, I’m not going to sit here under oath and pretend I know more about his illegal activities than I actually did.
The truth is, I had very little understanding of his legitimate work at the agency, and when it came to the sex-trafficking side of the business, my head was completely in the sand. Unlike my older brother, who orchestrated the takedown of our father, I knew nothing at all.
Because while the senior Zoric was pulling a bait and switch on women who immigrated to the US with big dreams of becoming models and instead found themselves working as prostitutes, I was too busy drinking and fucking away my personal problems at every club in Chicago to notice. Despite having my name on the KZ Modeling employee roster, I had few responsibilities back then and rarely made it into the office. I was a privileged prick. I’ve turned my life around now, but I truly can’t report much regarding my father’s secret life.
Explaining all of this to an entire room full of people fills me with deep regret and shame all over again. As much as I hate to admit it, I wish Brooklyn were here.
Instinctively, my eyes search for her in the courtroom. The lights are too bright, though, and I can’t tell if she’s out there in the spectator area. Not that I’m expecting her. There’d been no sign of her earlier today, and though I dodged my brother’s inquiries about why she was absent, I know I’ll have to face the rest of my family’s questions later.
The defense lawyer turns to the judge. “That’s all I have, Your Honor. No further questions.”
Thank God.
I’m allowed to step down from the stand. My legs are a little shaky. So are my hands. I’m not worried about being accused of anything; the legal team for my siblings and myself already said we’d been cleared of any involvement. The defense is just digging, trying to drum up any thread of reasonable doubt they can manage. I get it. I’ve seen enough crime television to know casting uncertainty on a crime to try to get the perpetrator a lesser sentence is commonplace.
But my dad doesn’t deserve a lesser punishment. He should get the maximum sentence. Not that it’ll make up for all the lives he’s ruined, the trauma he can never take back.
I take my seat at the counsel table next to Stefan and our lawyers. My brother nods at me.
“That guy’s an asshole. You know there’s nothing to worry about,” he whispers softly.
The lawyers hash some things out, and finally the judge says, “Court is adjourned.”
“All rise,” the bailiff announces.
We stand. Stefan looks over at me, concern knitting his brow. “You doing okay, bro? You looked a little rough up there.”
I shrug. “Just exhausted. Long day.”
“Well, don’t sweat it,” Stefan tells me. “It’s over now.”
He claps me on the shoulder and then heads off to find Emzee, who spent most of the day dabbing tears from her eyes as she listened to various damning testimonies. I turn to follow him, and that’s when I see Brooklyn.
She’s standing at the back of the courtroom in conservative clothes, hands folded in front of her, chin high, her gaze steady and open.
Why the hell did she show up? For the media coverage? To keep up the image of our perfect marriage? Or is she actually here for me?
Whatever her gesture means, it’s one I wasn’t expecting—and at a time when she could have deserted my family completely, the fact that she’s stepping up has to mean there might be hope for our relationship. Doesn’t it? Or am I reading this all wrong?
Before I get halfway to Brooklyn, she’s swept up with the flow of bodies exiting into the hallway. I’m just through the doors when I spy her and Emzee in a tight embrace.
Brooklyn pulls away and our eyes finally meet, but I can’t get to her before Stefan does. She gives him a brief hug, chatting all the while. Then Stefan’s wife Tori comes up and gives Brooklyn a kiss on each cheek, smiling gently.
I smell my wife’s perfume as I approach and suddenly I’m standing before her, both relieved and more tense than ever. But instead of wrapping her arms around me, she just runs a hand over my jacket lapel in a vaguely comforting gesture, making no move to go in for more.
“Sorry I was late,” she says, directing it at all of us. “I got here as soon as I could.”
“We’re glad you made it,” Emzee says. “Today was brutal.”
“Let’s get the press mauling over with, shall we?” Stefan says.
; As we make our way toward the gauntlet of reporters waiting outside the courthouse, I feel a small, warm hand in mine. Glancing down, I see Brooklyn has taken my hand as we exit the building to find a waiting pair of microphones and a small sea of press just past that. Our lawyers move to the microphones first and start feeding prepared statements to the news outlets while my family and I stand back with forced neutral expressions and have our photos taken.
The nonstop flash of cameras going off add an even more surreal layer to the scene. My wife is at my side, yet I don’t know where our marriage stands. It seems obvious she’s not willing to be with me, and I don’t know how to give her what she wants.
I find myself growing more tense by the second, one burning question on my tongue. “Why are you here, Brooklyn?” I say quietly, even though I know it’s not the time.
Because there’s hope for our marriage.
Because I was worried about you.
Because I want to be here for you.
“It was the right thing to do,” she answers noncommittally.
I glance over at her profile, and I feel my emotional walls going up again. She’s stoic and aloof, here physically but with her mind a million miles away. She certainly gives me no indication that she’s holding my hand for any reason other than making us look good for photos. Brooklyn Moss, liar extraordinaire. As if she’d actually show up here for my family’s benefit.
Our lawyers finish up with the press junket and motion for us to get moving, even as the reporters continue shouting our names and hurling questions at us. My siblings slow their pace to give a few comments, and my anxiety ticks up another notch. I can’t just stand around with this fake smile plastered to my face. Inside I’m a mess, and I have no outlet. I feel like screaming.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
Sweat beads along my hairline as I let go of Brooklyn’s hand. The crowd around us starts to shift and people get in between us. Brooklyn’s voice filters my way, but I don’t hear what she’s saying as I break off from the group and duck away unnoticed, heading toward the parking lot as fast as I can.
