Page 42 of Perfect Satisfaction

“Returning to the subject at hand,” I say to redirect his interest.

“Right. If I had to make a stab in the dark, I’d say go big or go home.”

“Hmm.” I think about what I just read.

“I know that look on your face.”

“What look?” I feign innocence.

“It means we just wasted the last hour talking about tonight’s post.”

“Maybe.”

Hastings smirks before tapping my monitor. “Rich heiresses do it for you?”

You have no idea. I stare at him silently.

“Okay, fine. Don’t tell me, but I know you better than you think.”

“Oh, do you?”

“You’re about to scrap what you were about to post about Kensington to post something about Ursula Moore.”

Damn. He does know me better than I’d hoped.

“Post what you’re going to post about Ursula Moore being out of a job. Maybe you can hire her to see if she can keep the rest of us on task. At the very least, she could keep up with your social calendar with Liza.” He gives me a lewd smirk before rolling away.

Fortunately, he misses the agony in my expression before a mask of nothing drops over my face. Fuck. I hate when my friends are right. No matter how many times I’ve been in the papers with Liza, Sula hasn’t contacted me. She’s washed her hands of me. Right now, I can’t blame her.

Except, I miss her.

I always miss her.

God, how could she think there would be another woman in my bed since we took our vows? As if I could touch one after I had Sula in my arms. Why would I ever want to feel for anyone the way I felt about Ursula Moore?

I loved her. On days I don’t lie to myself, I admit I love her still.

I don’t need my Moore. I need a fucking exorcism so I can settle for less,I think angrily.

“Head out. I’ve got this covered. I’m posting about Kensington.”

“You’d better.”

“Asshole,” I declare without malice.

Hastings flicks me off as he ducks out the door.

I return the salute but he doesn’t see me or he ignores it. Either way, I’m finally left alone in the office.

As for me, I just need to think.

The British solicitors—translation: lawyers—have been making mincemeat of my lawyer’s case that my wife is sharing a bed with Joshua Basset. “Are you certain you’re not imagining things, Arek?” my lawyer probed gently when we talked yesterday.

“I know what I’ve seen in pictures. They’re always together,” I rebut.

He lifted a document and began to read, “On the following dates, Ms. Moore was in Australia working on a piece of top secret software—most of which is redacted. Mr. Basset was more often than not in his London office. Christ, they don’t even live together.”

“Except every time I turn around, there are pictures of them together in the news,” I grit out.