So I packed a case and left for good.
‘You’re a piece of fucking work.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I reply evenly. Nothing good can come from arguing with him. ‘I faked the whole thing just to get out of this marriage. I did it all—faked adultery to make you despise me. It worked, though, right?’
Something dangerous crosses Dylan’s face. It’s not confusion—it’s almost like he doesn’t care to know. Releasing my wrist, he turns away.
‘Nice to hear the truth for a change, but it’s not enough,’ he says, whipping back to face me once again, though this time from farther away.
‘Enough with the cloak and dagger,’ I say wearily. ‘You’re not on set now. You asked me to come—’
He quirks an eyebrow, folding his arms across his broad chest. ‘I never ask. I take.’
‘And don’t I know it. You forced me here—blackmailed me. Now, just tell me why. How can the fact I haven’t committed adultery be put right?’
As I speak, the expression on his face works through a whole bunch of things—black anger to amusement. Amusement to devilry—and not the fun kind. Before he even opens his mouth, I know what he’s going to say. I know it, but I can’t believe it. Not from him.
‘That’s easy, babe. You just have to fuck some other guy.’
I don’t answer as his words settle in my stomach like a cold stone. I can feel my brows furrow because he can’t mean it. He can’t want me to—
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Well,’ he says, rubbing his chin now. ‘I do have a kind of extensive video collection. I could maybe get my kicks from that. Me and the rest of the world.’
‘I don’t understand why you would do this,’ I repeat softly.
‘And I don’t care,’ comes his response. ‘Not anymore.’
Chapter Eleven
Ivy
Tonight.
He’d brushed by me as he’d walked from the kitchen without even righting the fallen stool.
‘Wear something nice.’
And by that, I’d understood we were going out. Out to get screwed.
I think I’m still in a state of shock as I can’t be considering this. Can I? Yet I’ve showered, and I’m sitting in front of the dresser with a hairbrush in my hand.
This is some kind of test. Maybe he’s seeing how far he can push before I cave. But that’s not happening, and the Dylan I know couldn’t be so cruel. So callous. Not to me, anyway.
Whatever his reasoning and whatever the outcome, I won’t be able to manage my end of this charade without a little crutch, and that’s why I’m staring at the glass of vodka on the dressing table as my phone begins to ring.
‘Want to hear something funny?’
‘Hello, Natasha.’ My voice is calm—too calm—and without the slightest of slurs. Not that she notices as she ploughs on.
‘Well, do you?’
‘I could do with a giggle,’ I reply, exchanging the brush for my glass.
‘Oh, yeah. Poor you—you’re the one in sunny L.A. while we’re in wet flippin’ Auchkeld slaving away.’
‘I’d swap you. Right now,’ I add following a mouthful of the fiery liquid. ‘Seriously.’
