by Stella Gray
“He’ll be home soon and he’ll be all yours again,” Tori adds. “That sounds cheesy, but you know what I mean.”
I do. And she’s right. He’ll be home soon, Monica-free.
Later at the penthouse, I curl up on the couch with Mr. Kibbles at my feet and my phone in my hand. I answer a few emails and then scroll through my social media apps. I haven’t really engaged much on any of the platforms since my week of clubbing with Mateo in LA. It seemed smarter to keep a low profile until all the gossip and rumors died down. I flip through post after post, finding mostly routine stuff until I reach a well-known fashion blogger’s page.
And then my stomach drops.
The hashtag #wheresbrooklyn tops the post, followed by up close images of Monica swanning through the posh lobby of a Vegas hotel with my husband at her side. They aren’t touching—in fact, his hands are in his pockets—but she’s looking over her shoulder toward him, smiling warmly, and her body language says it all. She wishes he was touching her.
There’s more. So many more. Monica on the strip in a sequin tube dress, head high, her arm linked through my husband’s. Monica ducking into a limo, huge sunglasses doing little to disguise her identity, with Luka at her side. Monica in her photoshoot lingerie and an open robe, sensually eating a strawberry while winking at my man.
I click a link that redirects me to a TMZ article, and find that the celebrity gossip outlet has published a sneak peek of the Maxilene shoot with Monica frolicking in the fountain, Luka playfully splashing her, leaving her practically naked in her soaking wet bra and panties. The piece mentions that “reformed bad boy” Luka Zoric is in Vegas with supermodel Monica Shore, his new bride conspicuously absent. Speculation goes on from there, suggesting there’s “trouble in paradise” for the junior Zoric and his wife—his wife! They didn’t even have the decency to print my name. The last line of the article asks, “Is the honeymoon over already?”
Pulse pounding, I read through the comments that follow, mostly people gossiping about my absence and whether my short marriage has gone totally off the rails so soon. They’re not exactly wrong. There is trouble, and Monica Shore sure as hell isn’t helping any. I can’t just dismiss this as sensationalized press. Some commenters even wonder if Luka’s Vegas trip is an act of retaliation for the photos of me and Mateo that were taken in LA not long ago.
Throwing my phone onto the carpet, I pull the dog into my lap, letting him lick the tears running down my cheeks.
This is not acceptable, in any way. Luka never should have taken this trip without me, and without telling me in advance. At the very least he should have invited me along, even if only to keep up appearances. But regardless of my husband’s betrayal and disrespect, and regardless of how devastating this is, I’m not going to let this drown me.
I’m stronger than this.
And I’m ready to take the law into my own hands.
Luka
Chapter 11
I’m fucking exhausted.
After landing at McCarran Airport a few nights ago, I barely had time to text Brooklyn before grabbing a private car to my hotel, taking a hot shower, and then trying to catch a few hours of sleep so I could get up at 3:30 a.m. to accompany Monica to her sunrise shoot at Valley of Fire State Park. Then I spent half my day watching her bat her Maxilene-mascara’d lashes for the camera, surrounded by an endless vista of dunes and rock formations made of rust-red sandstone swirled with layers of cream limestone.
If it sounds like a fun way to spend a summer day, you’ve obviously never been forced to spend eight hours standing around in the middle of the Mojave Desert when the temperature is hitting triple digits. “It’s a dry heat,” they say. My ass.
The second we got back to the hotel, it was time for a costume change and a completely different makeup look for Monica, this time showcasing a lip color the company named especially for her—“Shore Thing,” it’s called—before she hopped into a fountain at Caesar’s Palace to prance around in lingerie. I was dying to call Brooklyn, or at least send a text, but with no service in the desert, my phone had already died searching in vain for a signal all morning.
From dawn till dusk the day after, it was more of the same. This photographer is a maniac. Monica’s been photographed in and out of limousines, wrapped around the tall white columns at Caesar’s pool, in a helicopter, at the Stratosphere’s 107th floor rooftop bar with its glass floor, allowing you to see the Strip lit up below your feet. I’ve made sure Monica’s been pampered every step of the way, treated like the A-list model she is, but I’ve battled jet lag, an extreme dislike of hot weather, and a total lack of actual meals. Unlike (apparently) the rest of the crew, I don’t function well on a diet consisting solely of black coffee, champagne, and chewing gum.
Damn Guy for making me do this.
He’d called me personally to suggest I accompany Monica to the Vegas shoot to keep an eye on our “interests,” and since this campaign is so important to Danica Rose’s business, how could I argue with him? I understand that he wants me to ensure things run smoothly and that Monica puts her best foot forward for Maxilene. But I’m miserable.
There was a time when I loved going to shoots. When I’d actually argue with Stefan to let me represent the agency instead of him. I didn’t do it for the business, though. I did it because it gave me the opportunity to be surrounded by models who fell over themselves to flirt with me, fighting to be the one I took home for the night. Pussy was my main motivator then.
Now? I’d rather be sitting next to Brooklyn on our couch, watching TV with the dog.
I’m not sure what that says about the man I’ve turned into, but frankly I don’t care.
We’re at The Venetian now and the place is packed, as expected, but the area for our shoot has been roped off. Monica’s being photographed in a gondola boat that’s floating in the artificial canal, with another male model decked out in full gondolier regalia. The camera is ready, the lights and reflectors are all set up, everything’s been arranged perfectly.
As usual, Monica looks great in a tight-as-hell striped dress. It’s a nice change from the skimpy lingerie she had to prance around in earlier today, not that she ever seems to mind being undressed for the camera. I stifle a yawn, wondering yet again why I’m here. It’s not like anything could possibly go wrong. Makeup mishap? Touch it up. Hair flattens? Don’t care. Bloated? Yeah, right. You have to actually ingest solid food in order for that to happen.
I’m irritable, underslept, and I just want this to be over with.
This is the biggest shoot I’ve been on in a while. There’s an entire team for makeup, one for hair, another for wardrobe. A designer to arrange and manage the locations, not to mention the expensive celebrity photog and his entourage. I can’t stop thinking that it should be Brooklyn at the center of this impressive production, though. She’d set this shoot on fire. My wife is good at that. She’s not just hot, she’s got charisma and a vivacious, bubbly energy that’s contagious. Everything she touches, especially me, bends to her will. The phrase “her smile lights up the room” could have been written about Brooklyn. Monica, on the other hand, is the classic type of sultry-eyed beauty that mostly scowls and pouts her way through her gigs. I’m over it.
I fiddle with the cell in my pocket. It’s on silent and I resist the urge to check and see if Brooklyn has called or texted. We had a good time at the runway show last week, and things were starting to feel solid again. I’ve realized that I miss what we used to have—whatever it was. The night we watched TV together, it had felt like we might be getting back to that. But she hasn’t reached out since I left Chicago. Is she pissed at me, or am I being paranoid?
Sure, we have a lot to resolve between us still. Long conversations, hard compromises, tough teamwork. I know we do. But I thought we could make it work. Our relationship has seemed to be on better footing lately, and that’s something I’d like to keep moving forward with.
If only Guy hadn’t insisted I be a part of thi
s fucking campaign.
Suddenly realizing the gondola is empty, I look around and spy Monica heading my way with a saucy grin. A sense of panic hits me.
Honestly, I like Monica. She’s been a friend—well, more of an acquaintance—for a long time, although we don’t run in the same circles anymore because I’m not the partier I used to be back in the day. But something has been different about her since we got to Vegas. She’s been all over me. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice. Hell, I’m so used to being fawned over I probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Yet her hands are on me constantly, she can’t stop giggling in my presence, and it’s no coincidence how often her breasts “accidentally” brush my arm.
Her behavior is just one more thing adding to my fatigue.
I know I could easily take her back to my lonely hotel suite at any time, but there’s nothing about the idea that appeals to me. I miss my wife.
Pulling out my phone, I shoot Monica an apologetic half-smile as I press my cell to my ear and pretend to take a call. Ducking my head, wandering through the corridors of shops and restaurants, I get as far away from the shoot as I can without actually leaving the hotel.
When I’m confident that no one has followed me, I check my texts. Nothing. Fuck. With every passing day it seems increasingly likely that Brooklyn is giving me the silent treatment for springing this Vegas trip on her without warning. Honestly, I know I should have told her sooner, but I didn’t want to deal with the drama that would have ensued. At this point, though, I’m regretting my cowardice. This trip feels even more unbearable without Brooklyn’s support.
A few laps around the casino floor and I realize that all this wandering isn’t helping my anxiety. Neither is thinking about my wife. I abandon both and head back to the shoot. It’s obvious when I get there that nobody has noticed my absence.
I take up my post again, watching from the sidelines as Monica is arranged, photographed, touched up, rearranged, photographed, and touched up again. A steady stream of tourists and hotel guests stop by the velvet rope barricade to watch. I’m sure they think it’s a movie production or something, and more than once I get asked who Monica is and what we’re doing. Quite an impressive crowd gathers on the perimeter, and Monica basks in the attention. Her entire demeanor changes now that she’s got an audience, like someone flipped a switch inside her. Her haughty scowl retreats, replaced by a self-satisfied grin she didn’t have before.
Ladies and gentlemen, Monica Shore. A woman who loves to be watched. Who loves to cater to an audience.
She’s always been good at putting on a show.
As the shoot finally starts to wrap up, the photographer announces to the crew that there’s a dinner reservation set for tonight that Guy arranged for everyone.
“And it’s on Maxilene, so you all better make the most of your drink tabs!” he says, drawing a few cheers.
I’m not really in the mood to spend my limited quantity of free time with the same people I haven’t been able to get a break from in God knows how long. The only thing I want to do now is take a hot shower, change my clothes, and order in room service.
Turning away from the gondolas, I loosen my tie and point myself in the direction of the nearest elevator. Unfortunately, I don’t get far.
“Luka!” Monica’s squeal grates on my last nerve.
Glancing over my shoulder, I try to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Yes?”
As she rushes up to me, she bats her eyes like a pathetic, injured animal. “Are you going to the dinner later?”
“Eh, I was actually planning to skip it—”
Ignoring my response, she leans in close, running one hand over my chest while adjusting my tie with the other. “Because I would love to have you accompany me tonight.”
I’m torn. It’s been a relentless day. But the lure of a stiff drink is calling me. I could go, order a whiskey sour, do some schmoozing. Better than sitting in my room alone, and I could leave after an hour or so. I’m just about to respond when someone tugs at my other arm.
Turning, I find Brooklyn standing there, looking like a goddess. She’s in a modest sun dress, dark hair loose around her shoulders, fresh off the plane judging by the rolling suitcase she’s got with her. To me, she looks like she’s glowing, even standing next to Monica with all her heavy makeup, professionally poofed hair, and red-and-white striped bodycon dress.
“Actually,” Brooklyn cuts in, “he’s going with me tonight.”
Monica’s mouth pinches. “Maybe we can all go together, then,” she chirps, linking her arm through mine so I’ve got one woman clinging to me on each side.
“Mmm, I don’t think so,” Brooklyn says sweetly. “I expect Luka and I will be a bit late…he hasn’t given me the private tour of our suite yet.” My wife lets out a suggestive little giggle and my scalp prickles at the warm tone of her voice.
“I can think of nothing I’d rather do than give you that tour,” I tell her, a huge grin splitting my face. I can’t believe Brooklyn is really here. Her timing is impeccable. “The restaurant isn’t going anywhere.”
Monica lets go of my arm and has the decency to back up so I can wrap my wife in both arms. She pulls my face down to hers and I lose myself in a long kiss, completely forgetting about Monica and just about everything else going on around us.
Finally, I pull away. “Ready?”
“So ready,” Brooklyn says. She gives a little wave to Monica. “You know how us newlyweds are. Have to sneak in the alone time every chance we get. See you later!”
I wrap my arm around her, grab her suitcase, and spin her away from the daggers I’m sure Monica is throwing with her eyes.
When we’re out of earshot, Brooklyn turns to me, her expression more serious. “Looks like I just saved your image, as usual. You’re welcome.”
“My image?” I parrot back.
She lifts a brow. “I’m sorry, did you not just have Monica Shore sticking to you like white on rice? That sure as hell isn’t going to help the latest PR nightmare, or have you missed all the gossip on social media? Please tell me she hasn’t been like this since you got here.”
I don’t say anything, mind still a little blown that she’s even here to begin with.
She tilts her head and looks up at me with her eyes narrowed, as if she already knows the answer. “Really, Luka, what would Stefan say? It’s lucky I got here when I did.”
As if her arrival has everything to do with maintaining my reputation and nothing else.
“He’d probably say something unrepeatable about how sinfully good you look,” I tell her, letting my gaze linger as it glides over her body. “And I couldn’t agree more.”
As we make our way through the shops, the casino, and the hotel lobby, all the men and half the women we pass turns their heads to stare at my wife. I slide my hand down to grab her ass and keep it there, even when she jerks a little in surprise.
She’s mine. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.
Brooklyn
Chapter 12
So much for the hotel room sex I was hinting at.
Luka gets a work call as soon as we step into the hotel suite, and he flashes me an apologetic look before stepping out onto the balcony to take it. Even though our accommodations are luxurious, I have no time to appreciate them. I need every available minute to get myself ready for the showdown with Monica. The time for playing nice is over.
Peeling off my dress, I step into the shower and start scrubbing sweat and recycled airplane air from my skin, letting the conditioner soak into my frazzled hair while I shave.
I can’t get over the look on Luka’s face when I showed up. He was clearly shocked, but it didn’t escape me the way his eyes lit up, how his huge smile had been one-hundred percent genuine. And oh, was it satisfying to watch Monica’s little sex kitten act drop like a bomb when she saw me. Luckily, I was just in time to overhear her asking him to take her out tonight, giving me the perfect opportunity to cut in.
It wa
sn’t until Luka mentioned the restaurant that I even realized what the plans I’d just crashed actually were. I’m glad it didn’t turn out to be a strip club. I wouldn’t put it past Monica.
Taking my time to rinse off, I hold out hope that Luka might notice I left the door cracked and jump in with me for a little pre-dinner hanky-panky, but he doesn’t. Well, no matter. There’ll be plenty of chances for that later.
The vanity lights around the mirror are exactly what I need to get glammed up properly, so I wrap myself in a fluffy hotel robe, blow-dry my hair with my pricy Rossano Ferretti volumizer and a round brush to make it extra vavoom, and then lay out my cosmetics.
I hadn’t been totally sure it was a good idea to fly out here. At the same time, with all the social media speculation, I felt like I had to come to Vegas and see what was going on for myself. Feel him out, try to glean whether or not he’s actually sleeping with Monica (or intending to). His behavior toward her should tell me everything I need to know about our marriage, and whether he’s truly invested in working things out between us. Of course, it doesn’t help matters that Monica is such a shameless flirt, and makes no secret of the fact that she wants to get him into bed.
Which is exactly why I’m going to show her just who Luka belongs to tonight.
Hair done, face freshly made up, I go to the sliding door and stand there with my robe strategically falling open. Luka’s still out on the balcony, facing the distant view of the brown-gold desert. I tap on the glass and when he turns around he does a double take and ends the call, his eyes glued to the exposed column of skin between the lapels of my robe.
Ah. Now that’s better.
“That was quite the phone call,” I tell him as he steps inside.
He shrugs. “Monica had a slight tumble during the shoot today. That was the insurance company making sure we don’t need to file an injury claim.”
