by Stella Gray
I just wish she’d talk to me, or at least pick up my calls and listen to what I have to say. It’s possible she’s been deleting my voicemails, and I worry she’ll block my number any day now. But if she thinks ignoring me will make me disappear, she’s in for a hell of a surprise.
The one thing that has me encouraged is that Mateo told me she’s just as unhappy as I am. I’d finally caved and called him a few days ago. I’d realized that, as her BFF, he was the most likely person she’d ask to let her move in long-term and on such short notice. And I was right.
“Is she there?” I had asked as soon as Mateo answered the phone. “It’s Luka.”
There’d been a pause, then some shuffling and the soft click of a door closing.
“As a man who keeps his promises, I am not at liberty to answer that,” Mateo had replied.
I took it as a yes. “Is she okay?” I prodded. “Just tell me she’s safe. Please.”
He let out an amused huff. “You know, there was a time I would’ve loved to hear Luka Zoric beg, but given the circumstances, this isn’t as enjoyable as I’d imagined.”
“A yes or no is fine,” I told him. “I’m sure she’d be pissed if she knew you were talking to me, but honestly I’ve been worried sick.”
Mateo sighed. “Wherever she might be, and I’m definitely not saying it’s here, I can confirm that she’s safe,” he said. “But also miserable. And also costing me a fortune in Talenti gelato and rosé.”
Relief had flooded through me. “I appreciate it, man,” I’d said. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad she’s with her best friend right now.”
“So am I,” he said. “At least one of us is taking care of her.”
I paused, feeling guilty over the way I’d always cold-shouldered my wife’s best friend, especially since he was now my one remaining lifeline to her. I was about to form an apology when I heard a commotion in the background on Mateo’s end of the call.
“Gotta go,” he said, hanging up abruptly.
That was about the extent of our conversation, but ever since then, I’ve felt even more determined to win my wife back. No matter what it takes. And as much tension as there’s always been between Brooklyn and me over her super close friendship with Mateo, I meant what I said on the call with him—I’m glad to know she’s with someone who’ll look out for her.
Finishing up the Thai food takeout I ordered, I give the kitchen a cursory clean and then take Mr. Kibbles for his evening walk, but it doesn’t do much to clear my mind. Everything seems lifeless and empty without Brooklyn around.
When we get back, I slump on the couch. I channel surf for a few minutes, but finally give up and pick up my phone, checking my wife’s Insta feed. It’s still radio silent. Looks like I’m not the only one she’s hiding from since the news hit.
Against my better judgment, I call her number. It’s futile, I know, but I can’t help myself. It rings through and goes to voicemail. No surprise there. Still, I leave another message.
“Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to say…look, it’s incredibly generous and caring that you gave that interview to protect me, to protect all of us at the agency, but God—did you even think it through? Why do you always have to be so bullheaded? We could have figured it out together. Dammit, I still want to figure this out together. Okay? I just…please, call me. Love you.”
Frustrated, I hang up and toss the phone onto the coffee table. Mr. Kibbles comes over with his head down, tail tucked.
“Sorry, bud,” I tell him. “It’s not you.”
I scratch behind his ears and let him climb onto the couch next to me, feeling another long, lonely night coming on. I’m an idiot. Maybe she’d actually answer my calls if the voicemails I keep leaving didn’t jump back and forth so much between me complimenting her kind heart and getting frustrated that she went behind my back and plotted her own destruction. But can you blame me? It’s impossible not to be aggravated at her choices. Especially since she seems to have decided that our marriage is over, without even consulting me. And the worst part of all is that I know we still love each other. But I don’t know how to fix this.
Nothing has gotten through to her. I can’t bear the thought that we’re really over, though. I guess that’s why I keep calling. Living in hope.
Grabbing my phone again, I shoot off a quick text.
Brooklyn, please stop being stubborn. Mr. Kibbles needs you. I need you. We both want you home.
A few minutes pass, and I tap out another text.
Don’t do this.
Realizing it might have come across aggressive, I send one more.
I love you.
Sighing, I rub my hands over my face. I feel like I’m going crazy. One thought keeps banging around in my head. How the hell did we get to this point? Where did I go so wrong?
I never see the forest for the trees. Things are generally black or white to me, and I always overlook the most obvious things when emotions are concerned. That’s why it took me so long to realize that I love my wife, and even longer to actually tell her. Maybe I haven’t said it enough. Maybe if I’d said it sooner, she would have leaned on me through this.
The way I leaned on her during my father’s trial.
It kills me that it’s my turn to hold her up and she won’t even speak to me.
My phone rings, and I’m so startled that I almost jump off the couch. It’s Emzee, of course. “Hello?”
“Hey,” she says, in the same quiet, concerned voice that she’s had since Brooklyn left. “How’s it going?”
“Same,” I answer flatly. “She still won’t talk to me. No other news to report.”
“I’m sorry,” Emzee says. “I’m sure it won’t make you feel any better, but she hasn’t returned my calls either.”
I start pacing the room, trying to let out some of the restless energy coursing through me. “Yeah. I don’t know. Do you think I should send flowers to Mateo’s or something?”
“Well…I probably wouldn’t,” my sister answers carefully. “You’ve called her so many times already, and it really seems like she needs some time to herself right now. You don’t want to overwhelm her. I mean…more than you already have. No offense.”
I let out a breath. “Yeah, no. You’re right. I’m just out of ideas. I don’t know what to do. I feel…powerless.”
“Of course you do. This whole situation is out of your control. And it sucks. It all sucks. It’s okay to feel like shit about it,” Emzee says. “But it won’t be like this forever.”
“Thanks. I really hope you’re right.”
We talk for a few more minutes, making plans for a doggie playdate later in the week, and then I turn off the lights and head down the hall for bed, even though it’s still early.
But I hesitate outside the guest room where Brooklyn’s spent so much time. It’s not like I actually expect her to be in there, but being in her space is a small comfort. I turn the knob and push the door open.
It’s just as she left it. Bed made, curtains drawn, laptop closed on the desk. Tidy. If she were here, I’d carry her across the hall to my room, curl up in bed next to her, and hold her tight. I’d never let go.
Exhausted, defeated, I sink onto the bed. As I look around, I can’t help wishing the room contained more of her than the new linens she picked out when she slept here last, which feels like an eternity ago. Mr. Kibbles jumps up and settles himself beside me. I should put him in his kennel for the night, but I don’t have the heart. Not when he snuggles into the blanket and drops his chin on his paws, looking up at me with his brows knit together.
“I miss her too, Kibs,” I tell him. Then I stretch out on my back and close my eyes.
I wake the next morning to the sound of my phone vibrating, the dog curled up against my back. Scrambling for my phone, I see it’s my brother calling. I let it go to voicemail and then check to see if Brooklyn responded to any of my messages.
Nothing.
Padding to the kitchen, I fire up the espresso
machine and open all the windows, letting the cool air roll over the sill as I fry up some bacon and eggs for me and Mr. Kibbles to share. It’ll probably hit the low 80s today, but this early in the day, there’s still a decent breeze. When breakfast is ready, I eat standing at the counter, appreciating the view.
As I sip my coffee, something hits me. I know where I went wrong.
I’m not sure what’s changed, but for the first time in a long time, I feel clear headed. In fact, it’s so obvious now that I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner.
I’ve always put Danica Rose first. Hell, that was the impetus for our marriage to begin with. No wonder my wife can’t quite trust in forever with me.
Everything came before she did. The agency’s PR status. Contracts. Monica. Going on shoots with other models. Endless work calls and emails, even at night and on the weekends. All of it reaffirming that Brooklyn was in second place, when she should have been number one.
It’s why she never fully moved her things into my room. It’s why she’s never put any personal touches in our home. She doesn’t think of our relationship with any permanence because I haven’t given her a reason to. Saying I love you isn’t enough.
In fact, the more I consider the possibility that she’d overheard my conversation with Guy, the more I’m convinced she did. And it makes perfect sense why she’d avoid me afterward.
Going by the words that came out of my mouth during that horrible call, Brooklyn would be completely justified in thinking that the agency still matters more to me than she does. Except that’s not true anymore. At some point, she took over as the first priority in my life. But I never bothered to tell her—and she’s had no reason to think anything’s different after all the things I’ve said and done.
I sip my coffee, mulling things over. A plan starts to form.
I’m going to fix this.
It might take a little time to organize, but I know exactly what to do.
Brooklyn
Chapter 26
It’s been a week. Seven whole days without my husband or my dog, and I’m a wreck. My eyes are practically swollen shut from all the crying.
I lean my head back and squeeze a few drops of Visine into my eyes, but at this point all it does is sting and make them look even worse.
“Why isn’t this working?” I croak.
“You’re not supposed to use three bottles of that in a week, Brookie.” Mateo’s standing just behind me, meeting my gaze in the bathroom mirror. He wets a washcloth with cool water and squeezes it out before folding it and handing it to me. “Here, put this on your eyes.”
He leads me back out to the couch of his friend’s place, where we’ve been crashing for a few days, binging on Netflix and takeout while I go through this crisis. Mat’s been battling me left and right every day to make sure I get out of bed, shower, eat actual meals, step outside for some fresh air… I don’t know what I’d be doing right now if it wasn’t for my best friend.
“If I was brave enough, I’d answer his calls,” I murmur, head leaned back and washcloth still over my eyes. “But I can’t even stand the thought of listening to his voicemails.”
“Do you want to listen to them now?” Mateo asks. “You could play them all in a row, all at once. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
“No.”
“Do you want me to listen and tell you what they say?” he asks.
I think about it for a minute and then sit up and set the washcloth on my knee. “No. Anything he could possibly say will be pointless and heartbreaking. He probably just wants to figure out the details of our divorce. Which, yeah, I know I’ll have to talk to him about eventually. It’s unavoidable. But I’m not ready yet. I don’t know. Maybe if I keep avoiding him, I’ll just end up getting the papers served to me by his lawyer.”
“What makes you so sure a divorce is in your future?” Mateo prods, topping off my glass with the last of the rosé.
I let out a sigh. “We can’t stay married after I went on TMZ and told the world the whole thing was a sham. And even if Luka did still want me, he wouldn’t want to risk the agency’s image by staying together. DRM’s future is the most important thing. He made that crystal clear to the Maxilene rep I heard him talking to.”
“Mmm,” Mateo says, watching me glug down the booze in my hand.
He gets up and heads to the kitchen, and I hear him banging around in the fridge for a minute before the telltale sound of a cork popping hits my ears.
“Part of me is glad the truth is finally out, but at the same time, fuck Monica for doing this,” I say, as he comes back in with a fresh bottle of wine. “I don’t even know what she hoped to accomplish, other than ruining my career, my marriage, and my reputation. Why does she hate me so much?”
“Forget her,” Mateo says. “You’ve admitted everything. She has no more ammunition against you now—you’re free. If anything, she’s made herself look bad for blabbing, and if this does any long-term damage to Danica Rose, she’s put her own career on the line too.”
“I guess you’re right. I know I did the right thing, Mat. So why does it feel so bad?” I flip open the box of thin-crust white pizza we ordered an hour ago and grab a cold slice, taking a small bite. My appetite has basically been at level zero since all of this went down.
“Because you lost it all,” he says. “At least, you think you did. But it only seems that way right now. I promise everything’s gonna look different in time. Not too much time, either.”
I scowl at him and drop the rest of the slice. It tastes like ash in my mouth.
“You’re saying someday I’ll look back on this and realize it was all for the best?”
My best friend shrugs, offering a gentle smile. “Something like that.”
“I wish I believed you. Maybe we can both fly back to LA together next week.”
“I’d love to have you come with me, but you can’t hide from your husband forever,” Mateo tells me gently. “Why don’t we plan a trip for you once this is all figured out?”
“Fine,” I grumble. I know he’s right. It’s just not what I wanted to hear.
Leaning my head on his shoulder, I reach for the remote, but he tugs it from my hand.
“I need a break from all the marathoning,” he says. “My brain is mush. Let’s watch something different tonight.”
“Sure. Just not The Bachelor or Love Island. No romance.”
“Deal.”
Mateo flicks through the channels, not seeming to find what he wants. I’m about to grab the remote back when he finally settles on one of those gossip-fueled entertainment channels.
“You seriously want to watch this?” I ask. “Haven’t we had enough of—”
And then the words die in my throat, as Luka’s face fills the screen.
My chest aches, my fingers itching to touch his handsome face.
“What is this?”
Mateo shrugs. “I don’t know. Looks like he’s giving an interview.”
Behind him and the show host, I see the all-too-familiar sight of Luka’s living room, along with the name of the show, which appears for a moment above them in graphic neon letters: Celebrity Chat. It’s the same show where Luka and I gave our very first interview together as a couple, when we publicly announced our engagement so many months ago.
“We’re thrilled to have Danica Rose Management’s VP of Talent Luka Zoric here today to address the agency’s latest public relations scandal,” the host is saying on the screen, all sympathetic smiles and fake concern. “We’ll hear from him after this commercial break.”
My stomach clenches. I’m sure Luka is gearing up to defend Danica Rose Management, to say how shocked he was to learn of my betrayal. How the agency had nothing to do with my scheme and how they’re planning to cancel my contract and cut all ties.
“Of course he’s on TV,” I say to Mateo. “He’s got to protect his image. Do damage control. Put out the fires, as Stefan would say.”
Mateo puts his arm around
me and squeezes, and I steel myself for what I’m about to hear. I know exactly how this is going to go, and I expect Luka will double down on everything I said in my interview. It’s the only way to save DRM. Stefan probably set the whole thing up.
My mind strays to Tori and the baby, to Emzee. All the family I’ll lose because of this.
“I don’t want to see this. Change the channel.”
My eyes are filling with tears again as I reach for the remote, but Mateo won’t give it up.
“Just listen,” he says. “Please. It’ll be for your own good.”
A tiny sob escapes me. “I can’t do it, Mat.”
I start to move away so I can run into the guest room and throw myself on the bed, but Mateo pulls me back against him.
“Calm your tits,” he says. “Just…watch.”
On TV, the show’s jingle plays, and then the host says, “Welcome back! We’ve got an exclusive interview with Luka Zoric this half hour. He’s ready to speak out after recent allegations surfaced suggesting his wife, Brooklyn Moss, was involved in a plot with rival agency Elite Image to steal insider secrets and orchestrate a coup. Luka, thanks for coming on.”
“Thanks for having me.”
The sound of his voice is magnetic, and suddenly I can’t tear my eyes away—even though I know this is about to be a total disaster.
The host continues with, “The last time we spoke, you and Brooklyn were, by all appearances, a happy, young couple very much in love. Was that the real Brooklyn and Luka, or was it all for show?”
Luka clasps his hands together and pauses, seeming to think it over. He’s sitting in a leather chair wearing a gray dress shirt, the top buttons undone. No tie. His go-to slim black pants. His hair is perfect, as always, but I notice the shadows under his eyes.
