Chapter 4
Luka never came back last night.
I stayed up so late pacing back and forth between the rooms, I actually started to get nervous that I might harm the fancy Aubusson rug. Sometime after three a.m., I finally turned off the TV and wrapped myself in a blanket in the corner chair, holding back tears. But I hardly slept. Every time I heard the slightest noise in the hall, I jumped up, anticipating his return—only to be disappointed every time.
When he left here last night, he’d looked like the devil ready to roll around in sin. I have no idea where he went or where he slept, but given my current standing with him, I can’t really interrogate him whenever he does come back. How did things go so wrong?
Every time I think back and retrace my steps, I don’t see how I could have done things any differently. Even if I’d rejected Elite’s offer sooner—tore up the contract they’d offered me on the same day I “auditioned” to be Luka’s wife—Monica Shore still would have found the original contract with my name on it and shown it to Luka later.
The sky is starting to lighten. The first rays of sun haven’t quite come in through the windows yet, but while I can imagine all sorts of plausible scenarios for why he hasn’t returned yet, my heart knows the truth. He wanted to hurt me, so he did it in the only way he knows how.
Partying, clubbing, picking up women. I’m hollow, the space inside my chest ready to collapse with anguish at any moment. He’s risking both our reputations, risking everything we said this marriage was for. But I can’t place all the blame on him. This is my fault.
The worst part is, I could swear I was finally starting to break down his walls.
The thought brings tears to my eyes again. I fight to keep them back.
Just then, the lock on the door clicks. I spin away from the window and watch the pale morning light spill over Luka as he stumbles in. My heart sinks to my feet. Is he drunk?
He tosses his wallet and keycard on the table beside the door, then pops a button on his shirt as he saunters into the room as if he doesn’t have a care in the world for the heartbreak and jealousy that’s ripping me apart right now.
Our eyes meet. His are hard and cutting, showing no sign of remorse or regret. I can feel my pulse racing as I take him in.
The scent of whiskey, his wrinkled clothes, and the bright red lipstick stain on his collar say it all. I fight back tears. Damn, Luka. You really went through with it.
“Sleep well?” he mocks as he steps out of his shoes and socks and kicks them to the side.
I lift my chin and don’t respond as he makes a half turn, taking in the room.
“What’s this, no room service leftovers? Couldn’t work up an appetite last night?” His grin is cold as he goads me. “I never imagined you with bags under your eyes, darling. I have to say, it’s not a good look on you.”
Even if I could think of a suitable retort, I wouldn’t let it out. Nothing I say will cut through him the way he’s doing to me. I catch a whiff of heavy floral perfume underneath the whiskey. His drinks had been strong, his fuck buddy, cheap.
I’m angry, but not enough to fight back. Because more than anything else, I’m hurt. And besides, part of me clings to the hope that we can ride this out. It’s the mantra I said to myself all night long. On the other side of my betrayal—and now, his—is the hope that we can get back on track. We have a contract. We said vows.
Luka pulls his shirt from the waist of his pants and begins angrily undoing the buttons. I can’t stop watching those long fingers working the small buttons free, noticing how deft they are in their work. Remembering how much pleasure they can bring.
His shirt finally falls open, and he peels it off his spectacular torso. His eyes narrow as he sees me ogling him, his voice going icy cold once more. “I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of a divorce, Brooklyn. Oh, no. You’re not getting out that easily.”
I feel a senseless flicker of hope. He doesn’t want to get rid of me. Maybe underneath his anger and bitterness is the desire to hang on to what we were trying to build together. To start over again. That means there’s still a chance for me to convince him that I never meant to hurt him. That in the end, I wasn’t capable—despite what it looked like from the outside.
“What do you want, Luka?” I ask, my voice coming out husky from the exhaustion.
His eyes narrow. “What do I want? I want you to remember that you signed a contract. You’re still my wife, and you’re going to act like it.”
He comes at me, shirtless, glorious in his form-fitting pants. His tan skin gleams in the muted light, the muscles of his abs tightening, calling me to run my hands over them. I hate that another woman touched him. I despise that he put his lips, his hands on another woman’s body.
But I still want him.
I swallow as he stops inches from me, bathing me in the scent of that drugstore perfume. I have the urge to push him away, to feel my hands make physical contact with his body as I drive him back. But I know if I do touch him, it won’t end anywhere else but him on top of me.
He hooks a finger and slides it beneath my chin, lifting my face the way he’s done before when he’s about to kiss me. “I plan to enforce all the areas of our contract, wife. I’m still going to make you famous. You’ll still get the best gigs. And me? I still get to use your body for my own pleasure whenever the hell I please. Starting now.”
A hard shiver goes down my spine. I suddenly feel flushed and exposed in just my thigh-length tee shirt. I can feel my nipples pebbling, tingling as they peak against the fabric. His eyes stray to my breasts, his expression going serious and dark.
“Are you going to argue my claim on your body, Brooklyn?”
I swallow hard. “No.”
