Snack granted, picnic basket locked and loaded, there’s still no sign of Luka. I wonder if he’s sleeping in this late. Not that I blame him. He’s been working so hard, plus the runway event didn’t wrap up until well after midnight. Guess I’ll just have to go entice him out of bed.
Listening outside his door, I hear a soft rustling. Then the sound of a zipper, and a metallic rattle. I knock, wait a beat, then open the door when he says, “Yes?”
I step into the room, and he pauses to look at me, eyeing my outfit with a grin.
“What’s up? You got plans to go apple picking today?”
Behind him, I see a suitcase open on the bed. It’s half full of neatly folded clothes.
As he continues packing, my smile freezes on my face. What the hell is going on?
“I was going to invite you on a picnic,” I tell him. “I thought it’d be nice to relax by the water. Maybe talk a little.”
He shoots me an apologetic look, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “Let’s raincheck. I have a flight to catch that leaves in two hours. I’m running behind.”
I nod. “Okay. Sure. Where are you going?” This is definitely the first I’ve heard of it.
“Vegas.”
Ducking into the en suite, he grabs his monogrammed toiletry bag and tosses it into the suitcase.
“Vegas?” I repeat. “Is this a work thing, or…”
“Yeah.” He gives me the barest of looks. “Monica has a three-day shoot. It’s the Venetian, Caesar’s Palace, a drive-through wedding chapel, and some undisclosed location in the desert. It’s her first major campaign as a DRM model, so she could use the support.”
Monica?Her name is like a punch to the gut. I suddenly feel like I’m standing outside of my body. As if this can’t be real. And then something else hits me.
“Wait, is this the Maxilene shoot?” I ask.
“Yes, Brooklyn,” Luka says impatiently, sitting down to put his shoes on.
As I watch him, it takes everything I have to keep from flipping the fuck out. There’s so much that hurts about this whole situation—least of all the fact that this is the campaign I so desperately wanted.
Honestly, right now I’m a lot more upset about Luka taking part at all. Why does he have to go to the Maxilene shoot with Monica? He’s not solely responsible for supervising every step of her career. In fact, she’s such a seasoned model that I find it hard to believe she needs any hand-holding at all. Unless this is just a cover story. It’s not called Sin City for nothing.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid, but something’s not sitting right. Luka doesn’t make a habit of following other DRM models to their gigs. Why should he, when he’s literally a phone call away if there’s a problem? Of course he goes to my shoots, but that started out as an excuse to police my body and maintain control over my squeaky clean image—and lately, I’d assumed that his presence had more to do with wanting to spend time near me, because he missed me.
Was I totally wrong? Is hewithMonica? Why else would he be at her beck and call like this, jumping on a plane across the country last minute because she crooked her finger at him?
Anger seeps through the disbelief and makes my hairline tingle.
My eyes narrow. “You really have to supervise the shoot? Isn’t that a little unusual?”
He shrugs. “I’ve gone to nearly every one of your shoots, Brooklyn.”
His voice isn’t hard, but it’s dismissive enough that I can tell he doesn’t enjoy all the questions I’m throwing at him. This only raises the red flags higher. I came in here to ask him on a picnic date so we could bond a little more as a couple. Instead, he’s running off to a drive-through wedding chapel with my arch nemesis and fiercest competition.
I feel sick at the idea of her being alone with my husband for the next three days. What happens in Vegas stays there, right? Luka and Monica could get into a whole lot of “what happens.” Even if he isn’t already sleeping with her, that doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to.
My fists are clenched at my sides, but I relax my hands and lift my chin. Part of me wants to throw myself at Luka, beg him not to go, or just throw his open suitcase over the balcony and see how fast he gets to the airport then. But I won’t do any of those things. No way am I going to let him see how this is ripping me apart.
“What do you have left to pack?” I ask casually, pushing away from the wall.
“Just need to grab my suit jacket and a few ties.”
“Great.” I keep my voice cheery and upbeat. “I’ll get them.”
He looks fully at me then. I flounce a pigtail as I walk into the closet, zip his jacket into a garment bag, and then hand it over to him with a nonchalant grin.
