The Ruin (Convenience Book 3)

by Stella Gray

  Hell, I almost went to bed with him after we got home, and even waited for him to get back from walking the dog just in case he invited me into his room…but when he didn’t initiate anything beyond a soft kiss good night, I chickened out.

  This morning, though, I’m feeling braver. Stronger. Ready to go after what I want.

  I stay in bed a few minutes longer, thinking up ways to surprise him today.

  A nice lunch at his favorite Italian restaurant? Maybe. A hike at the Morton Arboretum? Good.

  A picnic in Lakeview? Better.

  We need to talk, and the sunshine, a breeze, and a cooler full of canned champagne—something I only recently learned about, thanks to Mateo’s bad influence—can only help.

  Excited by the thought of lounging on a blanket with my husband and our dog and a basket full of artisanal cheeses and a crusty loaf of French bread, I check the time on my phone.

  Realizing that it’s almost eleven, I dash for the shower. I wash up quickly, leaving a deep conditioner in my hair while I take my time shaving until I’m silky smooth. Then I give my hair a quick blow dry and tie it into two pigtails. I make a curl at the end of each with my curling iron and then step back to admire my work in the mirror. Fun. Flirty. Innocent.

  Ha. Luka will especially love that last one.

  Going for a low-key, natural look, I apply a bb cream with SPF, a few swipes of mascara, and tinted lip balm, aiming to keep the fresh, innocent look going. Cut-off denim shorts and a lightweight plaid button-down knotted at the waist finish off the look.

  I’m not even going to pack dessert. I am dessert. He’s going to eat me up.

  Last night he’d thought I was the tastiest thing ever. I cannot wait for round two.

  I walk barefoot from my room and scan the penthouse for Luka, but he doesn’t seem to be around. Mr. Kibbles is curled up on his dog bed and barely pays me any mind as I walk into the kitchen. I take a quick peek in the fridge to see what’s on hand, then go to the pantry to grab the wicker basket. I begin to slice the cheeses, arranging them artfully in a deep Tupperware container. Thin-sliced cold cuts from the deli. Cornichons and almonds and red pepper hummus. Crisp red grapes. Fig jam. The champagne. We can pick up fresh bread on the way there.

  It’s hard not to fall into a daydream about snuggling up next to Luka on the blanket after we eat, planting kisses behind his ear and down his neck just to drive him crazy, maybe climbing on top of him if we’re in a secluded spot. I imagine dappled light falling across his chest as I tug his shirt up and over his head, then trailing my tongue down the hard ridges of his abs…

  A soft woof from Mr. Kibbles interrupts my fantasy. He’s sitting near my feet like a good boy, his brows furrowed in concern at the way I’m packing up all the salami and cold chicken and cheeses without offering him a piece of anything.

  “Oh, you,” I scold him. But how can I say no to those big eyes gazing up at me expectantly, the way his cute little ears are folded back, the tentative wag of his tail?

  Snack granted, picnic basket locked and loaded, there’s still no sign of Luka. I wonder if he’s sleeping in this late. Not that I blame him. He’s been working so hard, plus the runway event didn’t wrap up until well after midnight. Guess I’ll just have to go entice him out of bed.

  Listening outside his door, I hear a soft rustling. Then the sound of a zipper, and a metallic rattle. I knock, wait a beat, then open the door when he says, “Yes?”

  I step into the room, and he pauses to look at me, eyeing my outfit with a grin.

  “What’s up? You got plans to go apple picking today?”

  Behind him, I see a suitcase open on the bed. It’s half full of neatly folded clothes.

  As he continues packing, my smile freezes on my face. What the hell is going on?

  “I was going to invite you on a picnic,” I tell him. “I thought it’d be nice to relax by the water. Maybe talk a little.”

  He shoots me an apologetic look, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “Let’s raincheck. I have a flight to catch that leaves in two hours. I’m running behind.”

  I nod. “Okay. Sure. Where are you going?” This is definitely the first I’ve heard of it.

  “Vegas.”

  Ducking into the en suite, he grabs his monogrammed toiletry bag and tosses it into the suitcase.

  “Vegas?” I repeat. “Is this a work thing, or…”

  “Yeah.” He gives me the barest of looks. “Monica has a three-day shoot. It’s the Venetian, Caesar’s Palace, a drive-through wedding chapel, and some undisclosed location in the desert. It’s her first major campaign as a DRM model, so she could use the support.”

  Monica? Her name is like a punch to the gut. I suddenly feel like I’m standing outside of my body. As if this can’t be real. And then something else hits me.

  “Wait, is this the Maxilene shoot?” I ask.

  “Yes, Brooklyn,” Luka says impatiently, sitting down to put his shoes on.

  As I watch him, it takes everything I have to keep from flipping the fuck out. There’s so much that hurts about this whole situation—least of all the fact that this is the campaign I so desperately wanted.

  Honestly, right now I’m a lot more upset about Luka taking part at all. Why does he have to go to the Maxilene shoot with Monica? He’s not solely responsible for supervising every step of her career. In fact, she’s such a seasoned model that I find it hard to believe she needs any hand-holding at all. Unless this is just a cover story. It’s not called Sin City for nothing.

  I tell myself I’m being paranoid, but something’s not sitting right. Luka doesn’t make a habit of following other DRM models to their gigs. Why should he, when he’s literally a phone call away if there’s a problem? Of course he goes to my shoots, but that started out as an excuse to police my body and maintain control over my squeaky clean image—and lately, I’d assumed that his presence had more to do with wanting to spend time near me, because he missed me.

  Was I totally wrong? Is he with Monica? Why else would he be at her beck and call like this, jumping on a plane across the country last minute because she crooked her finger at him?

  Anger seeps through the disbelief and makes my hairline tingle.

  My eyes narrow. “You really have to supervise the shoot? Isn’t that a little unusual?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve gone to nearly every one of your shoots, Brooklyn.”

  His voice isn’t hard, but it’s dismissive enough that I can tell he doesn’t enjoy all the questions I’m throwing at him. This only raises the red flags higher. I came in here to ask him on a picnic date so we could bond a little more as a couple. Instead, he’s running off to a drive-through wedding chapel with my arch nemesis and fiercest competition.

  I feel sick at the idea of her being alone with my husband for the next three days. What happens in Vegas stays there, right? Luka and Monica could get into a whole lot of “what happens.” Even if he isn’t already sleeping with her, that doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to.

  My fists are clenched at my sides, but I relax my hands and lift my chin. Part of me wants to throw myself at Luka, beg him not to go, or just throw his open suitcase over the balcony and see how fast he gets to the airport then. But I won’t do any of those things. No way am I going to let him see how this is ripping me apart.

  “What do you have left to pack?” I ask casually, pushing away from the wall.

  “Just need to grab my suit jacket and a few ties.”

  “Great.” I keep my voice cheery and upbeat. “I’ll get them.”

  He looks fully at me then. I flounce a pigtail as I walk into the closet, zip his jacket into a garment bag, and then hand it over to him with a nonchalant grin.

  “Well, Mr. Kibbles and I have a picnic to go to. Have a great time in Vegas!”

  With that I spin on my heel, my pigtails nearly whipping me in the face as I march right out the door. It takes all my willpower not to crumble as I head down the hall.

  “Brooklyn.”


  I don’t pause at the sound of my name, and I don’t look back. I’ll be damned if I’m going to hang on any word from him.

  Snapping the leash on the dog, I hook the picnic basket over my arm, grab my purse, and head out the door.

  If Luka’s decided he’s over our marriage and onto his next conquest, I sure as hell won’t be sitting around here pining for him.

  Brooklyn

  Chapter 10

  Gulping down the last of my mimosa, I bang the crystal flute down on the table, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and gesture to our waitress for another.

  “What?” I ask innocently. “It’s only my third. They don’t call it a bottomless mimosa brunch for nothing.”

  Tori and Emzee shoot concerned looks my way. Emzee is still nursing her first boozy beverage, but Tori (thanks to the pregnancy) is drinking plain orange juice.

  “Rough week?” Emzee asks gently, sliding a forkful of duck confit sope onto my plate.

  I shrug. “You could say that.”

  The waitress comes over and switches out my empty glass for a fresh one, and I thank her profusely before digging back into my gourmet goat cheese, rosemary, and fig topped waffle. We’re having one of our girls-only brunch dates at a trendy new hotspot in River North that Emzee—our resident foodie—wanted to try. I’ve really grown to rely on them as friends, and right now I’m especially grateful for the distraction.

  Tori pushes aside her salmon toast and says, “I know the runway show went great—”

  “Yeah, you and that candy wrapper dress have totally blown up on social media!” Emzee cuts in. “I wonder if Elia needs a new photographer…”

  “—so what else is going on?” Tori finishes.

  “I guess I’m just missing Luka while he’s out of town,” I half-lie. “He didn’t tell me he was leaving until the last minute, and I was planning a surprise picnic for us.”

  “Awwww,” my sisters-in-law coo in unison.

  “You guys are disgusting,” Emzee teases. “Almost makes me want to start dating again.”

  “Ooh, speaking of which!” Tori says. “You know my friend Audrey from school?”

  “She’s the edgy one from New York, right?” I ask.

  “Mm-hmm. So she just got back from a trip back home and she went to this amazing gallery opening at some co-op loft space in Brooklyn where the artist makes all these ethereal sculptures out of wire and sheer fabric—” Tori stops talking just long enough to pull out her phone and start searching for the artist on Insta “—and I told her you’d totally be into that and she said he’s going to be in Chicago in a few weeks so I thought maybe you guys could—”

  Emzee presses the back of her hand to her forehead in a woe-is-me gesture and whines, “Please don’t tell me you’ve already set me up on a blind date with this guy! I’ve had nothing but bad luck dating artists. They’re always so self-absorbed.”

  “Don’t be like that,” Tori mock-scolds. “Here, just look at the sculptures.”

  Rolling her eyes at me good-naturedly, Emzee takes the phone and starts scrolling. “Ah. Okay. These are pretty cool. Like ghosts, except…there’s so much movement here. Oh, wow.”

  “Told you so,” Tori says, flashing me a smile.

  It’s hard to smile back at their familiar antics when all I’ve been able to think about since Luka left yesterday is what he’s been up to in Vegas with Monica. My mind has been flooded with images of them holding hands on the plane, screwing in the hotel hot tub, drunkenly deciding to get married at one of those Elvis-themed chapels.

  I know I’m just being frantic and jealous, but I can’t help how I feel. Even his “landed safely” text did nothing to assuage my suspicions, and I’ve been stalking Monica’s social media accounts just waiting for something incriminating to pop up. So far, it’s been nothing but the usual sexy selfies—people seem to be loving her new dark hair—and a few unimaginative shots of the Vegas strip lit up with all its flashy neon signs at night.

  But he hadn’t picked up my call this morning. Was he just busy, or in bed with Monica?

  If only my traitorous heart hadn’t gotten me into this mess. I never should have moved back into the penthouse. Not when things between Luka and me are still on shaky ground.

  “I think it’s already dead, Brooklyn.”

  “What?” I do a double take at the fork in my hand. Apparently, I’d zoned out a little while repeatedly stabbing one of my sausages. “Oh, sorry.”

  I set the fork down and Emzee slides it discreetly away.

  Looking back at my sisters-in-law, I see the looks of concern have returned. It’s obvious my little white lies aren’t fooling them, but there’s something nice about them knowing me well enough to call me out. I’d always hoped the three of us would grow close. It’s taken a little time, but we’re definitely getting there. I nearly cancelled on them when Tori called me this morning to see if I needed a ride, but I’m glad I crawled out of bed for this.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Emzee asks. “You look like you didn’t sleep very well.”

  “Well, Emzee, how well would you sleep if your husband neglected to mention that he was about to spend three days in Las Vegas with Monica Shore?”

  She frowns. “It’s a DRM thing, right? A business trip?”

  “Supposedly,” I grind out.

  Tori gives me a sympathetic look. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Brooklyn. Stefan goes on last-minute work trips all the time, and yes, sometimes with the models. It doesn’t mean anything is going on. Maybe it sounds naïve, but I used to get upset about it too, until he made it clear how committed to me he is. I’m sure Luka would never put your marriage at risk, either.”

  I wonder if those words feel like a total lie as they spill from her mouth? Because they sure feel that way to my ears.

  “If he’s going to cheat, I just wish he’d do it with anyone but her.”

  “He’s not going to cheat,” Tori insists.

  Emzee scoffs at her. “How can you say that, when you know what Luka used to be like? Although, before you came along, Stefan wasn’t much better.”

  “You’re really helping out here, Em,” Tori says sarcastically.

  “Look, there’s something you need to understand about my brothers,” she says, addressing both of us. “They’re the kind of men who fuck like wild rabbits because deep down, they’re just lost little boys, trying to find something solid to hang on to. But all that time, they could never admit to themselves that what they really wanted was stability. Until they found you two. And now neither of them are even close to the pathetic ‘men’ they used to be. Thank God.”

  She raises her mimosa in a toast and then takes a loud slurp.

  I take a long slug of my own drink as I contemplate what she just said. “Wow,” I finally say. “That was weirdly deep, and kind of a shock coming from you.”

  Emzee grins. “Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises.”

  Still, I have to admit that her words do make me feel a little better. Luka does seem like a different man since we got together, and he’s miles away from the arrogant, entitled jerk who tricked me into bed when we first met all those years ago. I’ve seen him be kind, caring, and supportive. He’d seemed truly apologetic about Monica getting the Maxilene job, and sincere when he said that he didn’t just hire her to ensure the company signed a DRM model.

  Tori reminds us that our breakfasts are getting cold, and we dig in. The food is delicious, and mixed with laughter and the good-natured squabbles that my sisters-in-law get into, it’s exactly what I needed. We sip our coffees as the conversation lulls into a comfortable silence.

  Someone’s phone buzzes with a text, and Tori apologizes and says it’s a message from Stefan. But as she reads it, her expression falls. She sends Emzee a side-eye I don’t think she intended for me to see, and my stomach does a little flip. That look can’t mean anything good.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Oh, it’s just a…” T
ori’s voice trails off, her eyes widening.

  Emzee grabs Tori’s phone from across the table, her mouth falling open at whatever she sees on the screen. She quickly recovers and shakes her head dismissively. “It’s nothing. Just some pictures Stefan sent.”

  “Pictures of?” I prod.

  Cringing, Emzee passes over the phone. “Better to see it now than get sucker punched later.”

  Sucker punch is right. It feels like my waffle is going to come back up.

  What I’m looking at is essentially a slideshow of Monica’s Maxilene shoot. She’s in lingerie, of course. I guess nothing sells makeup like the sight of a woman in skimpy underwear. The material is sheer enough to show off her nipples and the crack of her ass. In every photo, part of a series where she’s standing in the center of a replica Trevi Fountain, Luka is right there on the sidelines, hovering at the edge of the scene, hands in his pockets or arms crossed.

  His eyes glued to Monica.

  “Stefan just sent these,” Tori says apologetically. “He called them a preliminary spread.”

  I try to smile like it doesn’t bother me, but my lower lip starts to tremble. Sliding the phone back to Tori, I cross my arms on the table and look at them both.

  “Be honest with me. Should I be worried about this? I mean, do you see the way he’s looking at her?”

  “He definitely looks…focused,” Tori offers. “But in a professional way.”

  “Totally professional,” Emzee echoes, taking my hand. “He’s just making sure she’s positioned properly and that the lighting and staging is perfect. You know how it works.”

  “Sure. I guess that makes sense.” I nod, but if they’re trying to make me feel better, it isn’t working. It does keep me from doing anything outrageous, though.

  I don’t bring up the fact that I haven’t heard a thing from him since he texted to say he’d landed in Vegas. Not a good night. No wake-up call this morning. Nothing.