Page 1
Prologue
“London. London. Over here?”
I step out of the limo and onto the red carpet, running my hands down my sheen gown as camera flashes momentarily blind me. I’m surrounded by people yelling my name, and I don’t know where to look.
The diamond embellishment sparkles in the early evening California sun as a gust of wind tickles the open section of my backless Jovani dress. I chose the black one as it shows just enough cleavage and hugs my curves like a second skin. It’s the piece he picked out for me because black is the only color I wore for months, and he gets sentimental.
He waits in the limo, wanting me to have my moment in the spotlight. While it is our story, this is my night, and he gets plenty of airtime.
Paparazzi are everywhere, and my heart races when I realize I have to answer questions on television. The world wanted to hear from me, but for four years, I remained silent and refused. It was easier to hide behind my husband and avoid the inevitable questions, assumptions, and judgment of what really happened, especially when everyone else already recounted their side of the story. I can’t talk about it without reliving everything. Every nerve vibrates, every emotion stirs, every single layer of my veins seems to thin out. After we were discovered, I numbed the pain for months until I finally opened the thick bounds of my beat-up journal. Then the floodgates were open, and the words poured out of me—the therapy I needed to heal. I shared my truth with the world, but I needed to tell the story my way.
Am I actually ready for this?
A man steps in front of me, shoving the microphone in my face. “London, how does it feel to see your story play out on the big screen?”
A smile hints at my lips and a wave of relief hits me.
That is a simple question.
“It’s surreal,” I answer, looking right at the camera, keeping my head high and voice steady. “Lots happened out there. I lost everything, yet found my strength in ways I never thought possible. In the end, I found everything I needed, and I’m just happy to be alive.”
“Do other survivors agree with how they are portrayed?”
Depends on what survivors he’s referring to.
I shrug. “Ask them.”
Everyone told their version of the truth. They planted our faces in Time Magazine and the front page of newspapers across the globe for months. My version is the one the world believed.
And justice is a cruel bitch.
“Pretty Little Island is up for best picture at the Oscars. Did you ever think that would happen when you wrote and published your book, especially since some survivors are now in prison?”
I take a deep breath and clench my fists, facing him. I will not put their words in my mouth; they cannot expect me to atone for what they did or even make sense of it.
“I wrote my story and the truth of what happened out there. The decisions of others is what got them convicted, and it had nothing to do with my book.”
Done with his questions, I turn away from him.
A surge of cheers erupts from the crowd as powerful arms wrap around my waist. I soften against him and run my fingers behind me, grazing his torso till I find his hand and slide my fingers into his, not realizing how tense I am.
I turn my head and peer up at his chestnut eyes as he runs his hands down the waves of my dark hair that matches my dress. Everyone is now staring at him, calling out his name, but his eyes are only on me. He still makes my heart race, yet he is also the only person who can bring it down.
A young girl screams from the crowd, “Matei, I love you!”
My husband is loved by the world, but our world holds hockey superstars on a pedestal.
He turns and leads me down the carpet along the row of palm trees and a sea of cameras and people. Tomorrow, he leaves for a six-game road trip. But tonight? Tonight, he’s all mine.
Chapter One
Four Years Earlier
This summer is the warmest on record, yet the chilliest I can remember. The scorching heat is making my skin melt as I lie in my bikini, resting under an umbrella by the beach near my house. I’ve spent a month utterly alone in a town that is unwelcoming and icy to newcomers.
Although, I’m not exactly new.
For the past hour, I’ve stretched my legs out of the protective shade, tanning my legs and enjoying the last weekend before I start my new school. Every so often, I dart my eyes from my book to the ocean and cloudless sky, enjoying the views of this small, rich seaside town.
