by Stella Gray
“Not at all!” Luka replies. “In the long run, it’s going to be better for your image and ours if we just stay the course. DRM’s got some serious PR hustling to do, stat, but we’ll roll with the punches. This isn’t exactly brand-new territory for us, as you and I have discussed.”
My husband’s words hit me like a ton of bricks. I’ve really, really screwed up. Right when the Zorics’ agency had finally regained its reputation and was starting to make waves in the industry as Danica Rose Management. I have to fix this. And I know exactly what to do.
As I take a deep breath and start to turn away, I hear the men getting off the call.
Guy says, “I won’t take up any more of your time, but give a shout if you need anything.”
“Oh, I will,” Luka says good-naturedly. “In fact, how would you like to be my stand-in at the board meeting this afternoon? I’ve never been a big fan of tar and feathers.”
Guy laughs at Luka’s joke, and I hurry out of there, brushing tears from my cheeks.
So there’s a board meeting this afternoon, and Luka’s expecting it to go poorly. I hadn’t even considered that—they could vote to drop him from the company if they think he’s had a hand in this latest scandal. Hell, he was barely hanging on to his job before I came around.
He’s spent months proving himself worthy of his position, working his ass off to show Stefan and the board that he’s capable. What if they fire him because of me? He married a traitor, after all. They’ll question his judgment, his business sense, his integrity. Fuck.
After I duck into the elevator and punch the G button for the parking garage, I blot my runny mascara with a tissue and put my sunglasses on. I’m sure my eyes are puffy and red by now, and I can’t risk anyone seeing me fleeing the DRM offices looking like this. I check my phone again. There’s a text from Emzee, just saying she hasn’t been able to get ahold of Stefan yet. Great. I know she’s in my corner, but who knows how Stefan is reacting to all of this?
The doors ding and I step out into the parking garage, only to find a swarm of paparazzi hanging around in a cluster, waiting for me like predators. My stomach twists, and I’m beyond grateful my sunglasses are already on. I’ve never been bombarded like this. I’m usually with other people who can shield me, and I’ve never been considered so interesting that a dozen people with cameras are sent to flood my personal space. This is a nightmare. Holding my head high, I’m determined to walk right past them. They can’t touch me.
“Is it true you married into the Zoric family so you could sell the agency’s secrets to their biggest competitor?” someone shouts.
“Can you confirm or deny the details of Monica Shore’s story?”
“Look this way! Brooklyn! Hey, over here!”
I hurry to my SUV. Clicking the fob to unlock it, I try to ignore all the strangers yelling at me as I jump in and slam the door. My ears ring from the shouting and clicking, but I do my best to keep a neutral expression on my face. The car that I hit earlier is gone now, giving me plenty of space to back up, make a sharp turn, and make my tires squeal driving out of there.
My eyes are filling up again, and it’s hard to see. I slow down and bump out of the parking lot, then zigzag my way through the city until I reach a quiet park near the water. My chest heaves, my mind races, and I let out a few sobs before steeling myself for what’s next.
I can’t allow Luka to take the fall for this. I can’t hurt Danica Rose Management, or Tori, or Emzee, or Stefan. The new baby needs a dad with a stable job and income. She deserves to have a good family name with a good reputation. It’s time to make a call.
My phone rings. I almost shout with joy when I see who it is. It’s like he read my mind.
“Mateo!”
“Brookie? Oh, thank God. Are you holding up okay?”
“I’m really not,” I admit, my voice shaking a little. “And I need a favor, a big one.”
“Yes, I will kill Monica. How do you want it done? Messy to make a statement, or pig-farm clean so there’s no trace?”
I laugh through my tears. “Thank you for that, but no. Listen, remember when you were banging that editor from TMZ last summer? What was her name?”
There’s a beat of silence before Mateo draws out my name. “Brooklyn…”
“I need to do this, Mat. I’ve got a story to tell. Hook me up.”
He huffs but I know he won’t deny me. “Blair Roberts. I’ll send you her number.”
“Thank you.”
We talk for a few minutes more before I end the call. Seconds later, Mateo texts me her contact info.
I stare at it for a moment before taking a deep breath and dialing.
Luka
Chapter 24
“Fuck it, I’m calling the police. They’re professionals. Maybe they can track her down.”
“Luka,” Emzee sighs. “You need to chill out. I’m sure she’ll be home soon. For now, just…try to think happy thoughts.”
My sister sucks at trying to talk me off a ledge. It’s been twenty-four hours since the exposé came out, and my wife hasn’t come home yet. Brooklyn won’t pick up her phone or respond to my texts, and everyone I’ve spoken with hasn’t seen or heard from her either, including her parents. I’m frantic. Obviously she’s upset about the article, but I thought we’d weather the storm together. Now I can’t help thinking she’s walked out on me. Or worse—that something bad has happened to her. I don’t understand how Emzee can be so calm.
The last person to see her, as far as I’ve gathered, was my sister. I’ve checked in at Brooklyn’s favorite bistro, the coffee shop that makes the bizarre beet lattes she likes, the park by the water where she goes running. Nothing. I even called Heart and Home to see if she popped in for some volunteer work, but to no avail. As the hours grew long and darkness set in, I had to accept the most likely scenario. She’d gone into hiding.
But why would she be hiding from me?
Morning came and still no word, so I called out of work. Now I’m camped out in the kitchen in front of my laptop, my third cup of coffee going cold beside me. I’ve had Emzee on speaker for the past half hour. She’s keeping me from having a complete meltdown, but the moment I pull up a local search for private investigators, my anxiety is through the roof again.
“This doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t she at least let me know where she was going? I feel like I’m going to snap.” The words have enough bite to shock me.
“I’m coming over,” Emzee declares. “Stay put. I’ll be there in twenty.”
She hangs up and I scroll through the P.I. listings. I see the names and descriptions, but I don’t really process anything. My mind keeps straying to where my wife might be. Meanwhile, my phone vibrates with reminders of missed calls, voicemails, and a barrage of incoming social media notifications. I turn off the notifications and check to see if I’ve missed anything from my wife. Nothing. Of course not.
I haven’t bothered looking at any social media posts since yesterday when this whole thing happened. There is nothing good that will come from spiraling down that rabbit hole. But the notifications just keep rolling in. How long before some sleazeball journalist figures out she’s missing? The gossip will compound by a million.
I have to find her.
Scrolling through my contacts, I’m about to dial Stefan again, but I stop myself. I’ve already called four times today, and he hasn’t had any info to pass along. Plus, he’s at work. I appreciate that he’s taken all my calls, but after the last one he told me to take it easy and promised he’d reach out the second he heard anything. I have to assume that he’ll keep his word.
Desperate for a lead, I log into our credit card accounts online and check our banking transactions to see if she’s used any cards in the hours since I’ve seen her last. Both are dead ends. It’s like she’s fallen completely off the map. She hasn’t emailed me either.
Fuck Monica for doing this to us. I couldn’t believe it when I’d seen the news on social media. I wa
nted to go to Brooklyn immediately, to shelter her from the fallout somehow, but the explosion at work made it impossible for me to get away. I had my brother and the board breathing down my neck, asking a million questions, demanding solutions—and fast. But first things first, I had to get on the phone with Maxilene and find out where we stood with them.
During my call with Guy yesterday, I’d wanted nothing more than to tell the exec to go ahead and fire her. Hell, I’m still ready to have her blackballed from this industry for good. But with the fate of my family’s business on the line, I couldn’t pull that trigger. Not yet. Monica Shore is making us all a lot of money, even if it feels like dirty money now.
Turning back to the P.I. listings, I click on the first one that looks good. I enter the number into my cell, but before I can finish, a call from one of Danica Rose’s board members comes through. I stare at the screen but I can’t make myself answer. I’m exhausted. I was in the office until midnight trying to put out all the little fires this newest scandal caused. The funny thing is, dealing with this stuff is like second nature to me now. I’m a fucking professional in saving face. Thanks for that, Dad. I send the call to voicemail and set the phone down.
Suddenly, I hear keys jingling in the door, and Mr. Kibbles runs to the door expectantly. My heart jumps into my throat—until I hear Emzee’s voice cooing at the dog. He trots back into the kitchen with his tail between his legs, clearly upset that it’s not Brooklyn. I know the feeling.
Following just behind him, Emzee comes over and drops her bag on the bar top, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder as I rub my face with my hands. “Hey, brother. Why don’t you go take a shower? I’ll make a few more calls and fix you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She huffs in annoyance. “Shower, then. Move it.”
“I’ll miss her if she calls,” I argue.
“Then leave your phone unlocked and I’ll answer if she calls or texts. Seriously. Go on. You’ll feel better after you clean up.”
Even with my sister trying to literally drag me off of my stool, I refuse to budge. “I won’t feel better until I hear from her. Just sit with me.”
“Ugh, you’re the worst. Fine.” She slides onto the stool next to mine and takes a drink from my mug, making a face. “Let me at least make you a fresh coffee.”
“Sure.”
I talk her through her bumbling attempts to use my La Marzocco, but she finally gets it.
“Who the hell needs a five-thousand-dollar espresso machine?” she grumbles afterward, setting mugs down for each of us.
“You know it makes damn good coffee,” I remind her.
“Yeah.” She takes a deep sip from her cup and then sighs. “I can’t argue that.”
I close my laptop and let out a breath. “Just tell me one more time how you guys ended your lunch yesterday. Please.”
Emzee sets her coffee back on the bar and then slides off her stool to rub Mr. Kibbles’ belly. She’s clearly tired of recounting her lunch date with Brooklyn in minute detail, but she humors me. “We were at that famous deli in Hyde Park. She left straight from there to go to DRM, I guess about one-thirty-ish. We haven’t talked since. That’s all I know.”
It’s not adding up. “I don’t get it. I was at the office the entire day. My assistant said he saw her in the hallway. But she never came to see me. What the hell happened?”
“Well obviously you missed each other. Are you sure you didn’t step out around 1:45 or so?” Emzee asks. “Even just to go to the bathroom or make a quick call, or—”
“Wait.” I’m going back over my day, one step at a time… “1:45. That was my call with Guy, the marketing exec at Maxilene. Maybe she saw my closed door and just left. Or maybe she overheard something.”
“What was the call about?” Emzee asks.
I recap the conversation. How Guy was ready to kick Monica off the Maxilene campaign over the statements she’d made, and how I’d defended Monica. I feel gross repeating it.
“Why didn’t you just let them kick her ass to the curb?” Emzee asks, incredulous. “You better hope to God Brooklyn didn’t hear you on that call.”
“Look, I would’ve been thrilled to throw Monica out with the trash, believe me. But DRM’s in a critical financial position right now, and I don’t think we’d bounce back from a loss like that.”
“Luka,” Emzee scolds.
“It’s not just about the money either,” I go on. “We have to think about the agency’s PR status—in case you’ve forgotten, we’re still trying to save face in the industry. Firing Monica and losing Maxilene would hurt us more than it would help us.”
My sister gets back up on the stool and lets her shoulders slump. “I guess you’re right.”
I catch her eye and the sympathy there makes me all the more anxious. What if something’s happened to my wife? And we’re just sitting here moping around, doing nothing?
“Are you sure we shouldn’t call the police and file a missing person’s report?” I wonder out loud. “What if this is worse than we think?”
Em shakes her head, her voice soft and even. “I think she’s just lying low right now. She felt really guilty over this, Luka. Like it’s explicitly her fault. I imagine she’s taking some time to lick her wounds and woman up before she can face you. Just give her some time.”
We don’t have time. We need to handle this now, to create a united front against Monica and the firestorm she’s created. I’m too jittery to sit, so I go to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and look out at the city below. The view usually calms me, but not today.
“Oh fuck,” Emzee blurts from across the room.
I look over to see her staring down at her phone, and my mouth goes dry.
“What is it? Just tell me.”
She shakes her head and opens my laptop. “Get over here and load up the TMZ site. You’re going to want to see this.”
By the time I get over there, she’s already opened up my web browser and navigated to the gossip site. My stomach bottoms out as I see my wife on the screen getting ready to do a live feed, seated in a chair across from an entertainment news reporter, both of them with lav mics clipped to their collars. Brooklyn wears a pale pink blouse, her dark hair pulled back in a bun, with just a touch of makeup. Even with the serious expression on her face, she still manages to look stunning.
The ticker at the bottom of the screen flashes: BROOKLYN MOSS ZORIC TO MAKE LIVE STATEMENT IN RESPONSE TO RECENT ALLEGATIONS.
My ears start ringing, my vision tunneling. “Oh shit,” I murmur.
I feel Emzee’s arm go around my shoulder, and I turn up the volume as desperation wells inside me. Because I know my wife, and I know exactly what she’s about to do.
“So Brooklyn,” the reporter begins, “what would you like the world to know about Monica Shore’s allegations that you were involved in a scheme to trick your husband out of insider secrets in exchange for a modeling contract with Elite Image?”
I lean forward. So does Em.
Brooklyn clears her throat and lifts her chin, leveling her gaze. “That it’s true. Everything in the article was true.”
“It’s…all true?” The reporter sounds ridiculously pleased.
I shake my head. No, no, no. “Brooklyn, what are you doing?” I murmur at the screen.
“Yes. I was approached by Elite after an audition in Los Angeles last year, with an offer for a lucrative contract in exchange for providing them with information about Danica Rose’s business plans and insider information. I believe this was to aid Elite in buying out DRM.”
The reporter nods, feigning concern. “And so you decided the only way for you to really get access to that sort of information was to marry into the family.”
“I—” Brooklyn blinks, hesitating for a second. Then she says, “Yes.”
I can barely draw a breath. Why the hell is she doing this? It’s a lie. I approached her about the marriage, not the other way around. Our uni
on was a ploy to help boost Danica Rose’s public relations status—by legitimizing the most notorious Zoric bad boy. Me.
And now here she is on a live feed, acting like it was her plan all along to seduce me.
I don’t understand why she thinks she needs to twist things. We could have laid low for a while, let this blow over, presented the public with the long-term evidence of our happy marriage and a pile of no comments in the meantime. Why didn’t she come to me first?
“When Luka proposed, I knew it would be the perfect opportunity to give Elite what they were asking for. At the end of the day, I’d have the lavish lifestyle I wanted and walk away with money in the bank, and a very fat contract.”
“You’re essentially admitting you’re a gold digger, so to speak,” the reporter prods.
Brooklyn lightly shrugs one shoulder. “I guess I am.”
“Wow,” the reporter says. “People don’t usually admit these kinds of things. Your honesty is shocking. Did Luka know or did he find out when the rest of us did, thanks to Monica Shore’s exposé?”
Brooklyn tenses. It’s very faint, but I see it. “The marriage was a sham,” she says softly. “But Luka had no idea. He didn’t know.”
Emzee glances over at me. I wave her off. “She’s lying. Why is she lying?”
“To protect you, Luka. She’s trying to prevent you from getting sucked under with her.”
Brooklyn folds her hands in her lap and her expression turns stony. I know that face. It’s the one she puts on when she’s determined to see something through, no matter the consequences.
“The truth is, I lied to everyone and I got caught.” She gazes at the camera as if she’s looking right at me and my heart fractures. “Luka thought our marriage was real, that our relationship was real, but none of it was. Nothing was real at all.”
Luka
Chapter 25
After Brooklyn’s live interview streamed online, I stopped waiting for her to waltz through the door at any moment. It was obvious she wasn’t planning to come back home and have a happy reunion with me and Mr. Kibbles, considering that she’d completely thrown herself under the bus for the benefit of my reputation (and DRM’s) and then seemingly washed her hands of us. I still can’t believe she did that. I think I understand why she did it, but I’m still in shock that she publicly disavowed our marriage and then walked away without a look back.
