Page 43 of Perfect Satisfaction

“Arek, you’re an ass,” he says before standing. “You’re a member of the paparazzi and you know how misleading a picture can be. It’s obvious to me you’re still in love with your wife. If you want her, figure this out. There is a reason they’re delaying and it isn’t for lack of funds.”

With that, he left my office.

After replaying the conversation over and over again, I hit the button to post. Then I shrug into my overcoat and flick off the overhead lights. When I do, I catch sight of three women laughing in the office across the way.

Carys Burke-Lennan, Angela Fahey Burke, and Ursula.

What is she doing here in the States?

Immediately, I regret the months of catty remarks I’ve written on my blog when I spy the emotionless expression on her face. The ache in my chest expands the longer I stand there watching her sit in the room yet remain detached. I’m almost brought to my knees when I catch sight of Angie elbowing her and the ends of her lips barely curl upward. She leans forward, joining in whatever conversation the three are sharing but the same hollowness that follows me day in and day out hovers over her.

She’s magnificent and miserable.

“Are you still in love with your wife, Arek?”I hear the words asked in my head.

Certain I’m having a heart attack, I press the heel of my palm against my racing heart. I’d give a year of my life if I could read her blood-red lips. I wish like hell there wasn’t more than just concrete and glass separating us.

There are mountains of mistakes eating at the very fiber of who we are. “Would you have understood why I needed to be sitting right here doing this, Ursula? You’re you—heiress to one of the wealthiest men on the planet. Is there a possible way for you to understand?” I question the thin air as I debate fighting my way through the security across the way just to talk with her.

Just her and me. Just us.

No holds barred.

Working things out.

Then Ursula crosses her legs and I get a quick glimpse of the distinctive red soles of her shoes, and I deflate. “Probably not. You were out of my league, and I never knew it. You’re champagne, estates, and polo matches. What can I give you?” Disgusted with the way my thoughts had debated that maybe it wasn’t too late for us, I whisper, “I’m nothing more than a six-pack and a night looking up at the stars—wishing and hoping.”

Maybe that’s what I’m always meant to do with Ursula.

My decision made, I don my overcoat, flick the lights, and leave my office.It’s time to figure out how to put my life in order because it can’t be any more of a mess.With that thought, I head to the elevator and catch a taxi so I can drive home to Maine.

I have my own family I need to visit.

Family, my devastating wife knows the barest knowledge about but has never met.

CHAPTERTWENTY

Brendan Blake separates from Wildcard?

The rumors can’t be true. Brendan Blake wouldn’t change his representation away from Wildcard Media after such a wildly successful career.

Edited to update: Brendan is only shifting his legal representation to LLF, LLC. The boutique firm, owned in partnership by billionaires Carys Burke-Lennan and Ward Burke, has a friendly relationship with Wildcard Media. In fact, Kristoffer Wilde has been rumored to recruit both Burkes to Wildcard during regular phone calls.

—Moore You Want

“What do you mean our request for an interviewwith Brendan Blake was denied?” I’m incredulous. We’ve done market analysis and the country music singer’s fan base is big followers of our site. In the past, we’ve had a solid working relationship with Wildcard’s PR team.

“I have no idea, Ronan. I contacted Paula Stone, and she was cold, man. Like ice. Did you not pull out?” Hastings demands.

I hurl a furious glare in his direction. “I escorted her socially one night over five years ago. Trust me, that’s not something to stop a perfectly healthy working relationship over.” Besides, I’ve never had any sort of affair with Paula Stone.

Other than Ursula, only Liza managed to put her lips on mine for a millisecond to capitalize on a photo op, but she paid for that when it appeared in all the news magazines the next day. She paid with something worse than this writer’s fury—she found herself unable to reunite with the love of her life.

Just like me.

Yet, unlike my wife, I’ve been unable to move on. I’ve hardly been able to tap into the hate I feel for Ursula, yet I barely am able to tap into the love I hold for her.Does it mean I’m weak or she’s my weakness? I’m still pondering the answer when Hastings shoves me out of the way.

“No? Then explain this message from Wildcard.” Within seconds, I’m reading the email over his shoulder.