My calendar app alerts me to a meeting in five minutes. I put the phone down and head out. To make up for yesterday’s lost time, I work through lunch. Around four p.m., I ask James to bring the car around. I want to drop by our flagship store in Los Angeles. From time to time, I do an impromptu store visit to make sure all our retail locations have the proper look and feel. Some consultants Darren hired said each place having its own wildly unique flavor is better, but I disagree. Peery Diamonds sells a luxurious experience along with extravagant jewelry, and certain baseline standards must be met. That said, I love seeing the extra touches that the store managers add to make their particular store feel more exclusive and upscale, and figuring out ways to implement the best of them across all our locations.
After I climb into the car, I realize that the unpleasantly familiar paparazzo is still missing.
“Have you seen That Stalker anywhere today?” I ask James.
“No. Haven’t seen any of them,” he says, his eyes on the road.
“How weird.”
He grunts. “I’m glad they’re finally leaving you alone.”
“I guess…” Although I should be happy, part of me is antsy because something feels off. They’ve been hounding me since I was a teenager. Why stop now? Is this also Sebastian’s doing? Did he threaten to sue them after they published articles about me, him and Gabriella? Is that why they’re stopping?
Should I have tried to sue them when they messed with me before? I’ve considered it many times, but Bianca convinced me that legal action would draw more attention. She said they might become even more relentless to show that they aren’t afraid of lawsuits. “If they were worried about getting sued, they would’ve never become paparazzi.”
She’s right, but still…
Spending hundreds of thousands on legal fees would be worth it if it can get them off my back.
As the Cullinan maneuvers through the busy Los Angeles traffic, I stare outside. So many cars, so many people. I let out a long breath.
The world feels sofreeright now. With the international headquarters relocation, internal audits and the Sebastian Peery collaboration starting in earnest, I have more on my plate than ever before—but the endless task list doesn’t feel daunting. I’m actually energized, knowing I’m finally in the driver’s seat.
A bus roars by on the other side of the street. On its side is a bright eye-shadow advertisement featuring a smiling Gabriella Ricci.
My heart freezes for a moment. Her hair unbound and her smile saucy and carefree, she looks nothing like me, not just in features or coloring, but in demeanor. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled like that. What Ted said yesterday comes back to me.
You’re totally not Sebastian’s type.
But he wanted me—at least, he wanted my body. I don’t know what to feel about the fact that he’s in love with Gabriella, but seems to desire me so much. Look at what happened yesterday in the limo and this morning in the gym. I also can’t decide if I should be happy or horrified that I crave him back so shamelessly.
Then I realize I haven’t checked the statement Bianca mentioned earlier. Gabriella posted a video on her feed, looking as gorgeous as ever.
“I don’t know why people are saying that Lucienne Peery ‘stole’ Sebastian. Do Ilooklike a woman who has men stolen from her?” She scoffs, then grins playfully at the audience. “Our relationship wasn’t going in the direction I wanted, so it was time to move on, even though Sebastian’s a fabulous guy. It’s me, not him.” Her tone says itishim. “Anyway, I wish them both the best.”
So. She dumped him after he told her he needed to marry me. Hardly surprising—I would’ve done exactly the same in her situation. No wonder he just said he and Gabriella were fine and refused to elaborate. He’s probably broken up about it.
My situation feels like emotional adultery. I might have legal claim to him, but it’s Gabriella who has his heart.
And although Sebastian was insulted at the notion that I don’t expect him to be particularly faithful, the fact that his penis doesn’t care whom his heart belongs to makes me sad and feel like a second choice, like I’ve always been to so many people in my life.
On the other hand, he said he’d be faithful during our marriage, most likely out of some sense of honor or what little respect he has left for me. I can’t demand he stays celibate while we’re married if he’s making an effort to be a decent husband. My own conflicting emotions are my burden for forcing this marriage on him. I’m not going to think about anything except being a good wife until I’m done with the expatriation and we can have an amicable divorce. That’s the least I owe him.
The car finally stops in front of the flagship store. James opens the door.
“Thanks,” I murmur, and stride into our giant marble and glass monument to luxury.
This location is sentimental. I got my first position at Peery Diamonds as a junior associate here. Grandfather didn’t believe that I could be an effective executive if I didn’t know how our associates interfaced with—and sold to—the customers.
My heels clack quietly on the shiny champagne-colored stone floor. The crown-shaped mini chandeliers glow softly, and Chopin floats along the air. Every glass case is spotless, the navy velvet pristine. All sorts of gemstones sparkle under the lights, showing off our exceptional cuts and designs.
A couple of Asian women are seated on one of the benches. They’re nearly identical in appearance—the same conservative black skirt suit, black pumps and hair pulled back into buns. Their nails are neatly trimmed and without polish, and they aren’t wearing any jewelry, except for pearl studs of average quality you might find in any mid-tier department store. The watches on their wrists are functional, with simple round faces and dark brown leather straps, not something you’d find in luxury stores.
In front of them is a table with two velvet trays showcasing cuff links, rings and bracelets. I move closer, curious as to exactly what type of designs they’re looking at, since they don’t seem to fit the profile of our typical clientele. When I’m three steps from the table, a dark-haired toddler comes running full speed out of nowhere. He’s holding a child’s sippy cup in one hand, and he runs smack into my leg.
He promptly lands on his butt. The cup flies out of his chubby little hand, half of what proves to be chocolate milkshake landing on me. The icy liquid drenches my dress and drips down onto my shoes. The other half splatters all over the trays, soiling the glittering items.
It happens so fast that the boy just stares up at me like a stunned little angel, his brown eyes wide. He looks down at his empty hand, and at my wet dress. His chin starts to tremble, and tears spike his long eyelashes.
