Page 4 of The Contract
I’d been so proud that this smart, driven, genuinely kind woman was walking down the aisle dressed in white to be my life partner. But she played me. My own family has done a lot of shitty things to me during my life, but none of it compares to this. The cold shock of betrayal, the gut-slicing feeling of being blindsided by someone so close to you, and for no reason other than to get themselves ahead. I had a weak spot for Brooklyn, and she used it against me.
I shake my head and go into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
As I twist off my wedding ring, the door opens, but Brooklyn just stands at the threshold.
“How did Monica even get a copy of the contract, Luka? Something isn’t right.”
I shrug, setting the ring on the dresser. “I don’t care. It’s beside the point.”
She clasps her hands. “It does matter, though. If Elite can’t get what they want from me, they’ll use someone else to do it. Maybe she’s their next spy. Haven’t you considered that?”
Wow, just moving right along to deflecting her guilt onto the next available person she can find. How did I ever, ever read Brooklyn’s character so wrong?
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Monica and I go way back,” I grind out. “She’s already sitting pretty with Elite, so they’ve got no leverage on her to do their dirty work. And besides, she’s afriend. She’s only got my best interests in mind. Unlike my wife.”
Wife. What a fucking bitter, laughable word. I’m so done with Brooklyn Moss.
I want out of this room, back on the plane where I can consume myself with work and shut her the hell out completely. Instead, I have to suffer through a two-week-long Paris honeymoon that was supposed to be the start of our future together. This vacation was supposed tomeansomething.
Now, it’s just a prison sentence.
Brooklyn goes to the table beside the sofa, picking up her cell phone and walking back to the bedroom doorway. She scrolls, taps the screen, and then holds it out for me to see.
She’s calling Elite.
“I told you that I’m done with them,” she insists. “And now I’ll prove it to you.”
I stand there watching impassively as she leaves a message for Austin Spears, telling him their deal is off and that she’s no longer interested in what they’d discussed. It hardly matters. My mind is already made up. I spin on my heel and make a final trip into the bedroom’s en suite bathroom for her toiletries. Brooklyn’s eyes shimmer with tears as I drop them on the sofa.
“What’s all this?” she asks.
“Your bedroom for the next two weeks,” I tell her grimly.
“Luka—”
“I’d like to say I’m a gentleman, but you don’t deserve that from me. I hope the sofa’s comfortable.” I start to walk away, and then add, “Oh—and don’t even think about wandering around Paris by yourself. We still have an image to uphold.”
With that, Brooklyn’s eyes flash. “Are you kidding me? You can’t keep me locked up in here! We need to talk about this, like two adults!”
I can’t take her shit anymore. “Enough! This fucking hotel will be prison forboth of usuntil this fake honeymoon is over. If I’m trapped in this hellhole, so are you.”
Making a final gesture at the room—which is pretty luxurious for a prison, to be fair—I storm back into the bedroom and slam the door, locking it behind me. I wish I could lock it a hundred times. For a while, I stand out on the balcony, blankly looking out at the scenery. We should be having the time of our lives right now, and instead I’m trying not to boot her ass straight back to Chicago on the first commercial flight out of Charles de Gaulle.
Finally, I go to the desk and open my laptop, checking my email with a few angry keystrokes. Desperate for busy work, I pull up some documents that need my electronic signature. Then I pass the day sending off a flurry of emails, reviewing new client contracts, and making some overdue calls. But it’s really all a blur.
I can barely focus with my emotions eating me alive.
At some point I hear the shower turn on in the other bathroom, and later Brooklyn knocks on the door to tell me she ordered room service for lunch. I ignore her.
The scent of rain carries on a gust of wind through the open French doors, and suddenly I realize it’s dark outside. The clock on my laptop says 3:54 p.m., though it’s set to Chicago’s time zone—it’s almost 11p.m. local—but I realize it’s been a while since I heard a peep from Brooklyn on the other side of the door.
Anger rushes through me all over again. Did she ignore my demand to stay in the room?
I go quietly to the door and crack it. The living area is shadowed. It takes me a second to realize that Brooklyn has moved all of her things to one end of the couch, her body huddled under a blanket at the other end. The TV is on some French news channel, and she’s fast asleep.
I step over to her, hands in my pockets, heart in my throat. Even asleep, a half-frown tugging at the corner of her mouth, she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.
Something tugs in my chest, but I smash it down. Fuck that. She doesn’t deserve any kindness from me after what she tried to pull. I fight back the urge to move the hair out of her face. To scoop her into my arms and tuck her into the bed where she’ll be more comfortable.
