Page 87 of Wicked Fortune

“I—no.” I want to kick myself for being tongue-tied. She’s the bitch who got involved with Trent. Who knew about the trafficking. And who said absolutely nothing.

She sniffs, as haughty as ever. “At least one of us got what we wanted.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb. You wanted him, didn’t you? Well, congratulations. He’s yours—for now.”

“Matthew? You’re jealous that I’m with Matthew? You were sleeping with that snake who kidnapped women!”

“I’m taking a deal, sweetie. Nobody’s putting me on trial.”

I glance toward the guard, who looks as disgusted as I feel. She’s getting off by agreeing to testify. On the one hand, I want every iota of evidence piled up against Trent and his flunkies. On the other hand, I want her behind bars, too.

But I don’t say any of that. I’m not going to talk to her. I’m just going to go to my office and wait out her departure.

I’ve almost reached my door when she says, “Joke’s on you, Aria. You’re so proud of getting your hooks into Matthew, but you won’t want him once you learn the truth.”

I stiffen, but I tell myself to go into my office, shut the door, and not take the bait.

Unfortunately, I’m terrible at taking my own advice. I cross my arms and turn to her. “What truth?”

She shakes her head, like a frustrated guardian bemoaning the foolish antics of a toddler. “You’re just a girl chasing a fantasy. Like a teenager swooning over the bad boy, completely oblivious to how truly bad he is.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, Lila. I am not doing the Mean Girl Dance with you. Be jealous on your own time.”

Her chin lifts. “Oh, I am jealous. He was mine before he was yours, remember? And I know where all the bodies are buried.”

I say nothing. But I also don’t leave. Which, I guess, is the equivalent of saying something.

“You’re just dying to know what I’m talking about, aren’t you?”

I say nothing.

Her smile is thin. “Too bad I can’t tell you where to find all the dirt on our perfect little Matthew. That would be breaking an oath to never reveal that he keeps a safe behind the Vivien Lorainne photo.” She puts a hand over her mouth, her eyes Betty Boop wide. “Oopsie.”

My heart skips a beat. I know the photo well—Matthew had told me it was the first thing he ever bought with the profit from his first film.

“The code is his birthday,” she continues. “And I’m sure you can figure out the year. So cliche, don’t you think? The powerful older man and his sweet, young fuck toy.”

I stand there, silent but seething as she grabs her box of belongings and stands, her next words slicing through me like a blade. “Maybe there aren’t any secrets in that safe. I’m not actually saying there’s anything in there that would tear you two apart. Doesn’t matter, though. Even if he has no secrets—you two won’t last. You’re this month’s eye candy. Next time, I bet she’s a redhead.”

She walks out without another word, the agents by her side, and I’m left standing there, trembling, as her words echo in my head, a toxic mixture of jealousy and bitterness.

I know she said those things only to hurt me. She wanted to get a reaction. Wanted to piss me off.

And it worked.

But that doesn’t mean that what she said’s not true.

The photo hangs on an interior half-wall that visually divides the living and dining areas. It sits above a small bookcase devoted to books about Hollywood’s Golden Age.

I stand staring at it, my purse dropped carelessly at my feet. I’d come in, then crossed to this spot, not even bothering to pull the front door closed behind me.

I’ve been standing for what feels like an eternity, but has probably only been a minute. Outside, I can hear the rustle of leaves and the low hum of traffic in the distance.

I shouldn’t do this.

It’s vile to poke into someone’s private things, and if Matthew were to start rummaging through the box that contains my childhood diaries, I would be livid.