Page 24 of The Ruin
“Stefan just sent these,” Tori says apologetically. “He called them a preliminary spread.”
I try to smile like it doesn’t bother me, but my lower lip starts to tremble. Sliding the phone back to Tori, I cross my arms on the table and look at them both.
“Be honest with me. Should I be worried about this? I mean, do you see the way he’s looking at her?”
“He definitely looks…focused,” Tori offers. “But in a professional way.”
“Totally professional,” Emzee echoes, taking my hand. “He’s just making sure she’s positioned properly and that the lighting and staging is perfect. You know how it works.”
“Sure. I guess that makes sense.” I nod, but if they’re trying to make me feel better, it isn’t working. It does keep me from doing anything outrageous, though.
I don’t bring up the fact that I haven’t heard a thing from him since he texted to say he’d landed in Vegas. Not a good night. No wake-up call this morning. Nothing.
“He’ll be home soon and he’ll be all yours again,” Tori adds. “That sounds cheesy, but you know what I mean.”
I do. And she’s right. He’ll be home soon, Monica-free.
Later at the penthouse, I curl up on the couch with Mr. Kibbles at my feet and my phone in my hand. I answer a few emails and then scroll through my social media apps. I haven’t really engaged much on any of the platforms since my week of clubbing with Mateo in LA. It seemed smarter to keep a low profile until all the gossip and rumors died down. I flip through post after post, finding mostly routine stuff until I reach a well-known fashion blogger’s page.
And then my stomach drops.
The hashtag#wheresbrooklyntops the post, followed by up close images of Monica swanning through the posh lobby of a Vegas hotel with my husband at her side. They aren’t touching—in fact, his hands are in his pockets—but she’s looking over her shoulder toward him, smiling warmly, and her body language says it all. She wishes he was touching her.
There’s more. So many more. Monica on the strip in a sequin tube dress, head high, her arm linked through my husband’s. Monica ducking into a limo, huge sunglasses doing little to disguise her identity, with Luka at her side. Monica in her photoshoot lingerie and an open robe, sensually eating a strawberry while winking at my man.
I click a link that redirects me to aTMZarticle, and find that the celebrity gossip outlet has published a sneak peek of the Maxilene shoot with Monica frolicking in the fountain, Luka playfully splashing her, leaving her practically naked in her soaking wet bra and panties. The piece mentions that “reformed bad boy” Luka Zoric is in Vegas with supermodel Monica Shore, his new bride conspicuously absent. Speculation goes on from there, suggesting there’s “trouble in paradise” for the junior Zoric and his wife—his wife! They didn’t even have the decency to print my name. The last line of the article asks, “Is the honeymoon over already?”
Pulse pounding, I read through the comments that follow, mostly people gossiping about my absence and whether my short marriage has gone totally off the rails so soon. They’re not exactly wrong. Thereistrouble, and Monica Shore sure as hell isn’t helping any. I can’t just dismiss this as sensationalized press. Some commenters even wonder if Luka’s Vegas trip is an act of retaliation for the photos of me and Mateo that were taken in LA not long ago.
Throwing my phone onto the carpet, I pull the dog into my lap, letting him lick the tears running down my cheeks.
This is not acceptable, in any way. Luka never should have taken this trip without me, and without telling me in advance. At theveryleast he should have invited me along, even if only to keep up appearances. But regardless of my husband’s betrayal and disrespect, and regardless of how devastating this is, I’m not going to let this drown me.
I’m stronger than this.
And I’m ready to take the law into my own hands.
Luka
Chapter 11
I’m fucking exhausted.
After landing at McCarran Airport a few nights ago, I barely had time to text Brooklyn before grabbing a private car to my hotel, taking a hot shower, and then trying to catch a few hours of sleep so I could get up at 3:30 a.m. to accompany Monica to her sunrise shoot at Valley of Fire State Park. Then I spent half my day watching her bat her Maxilene-mascara’d lashes for the camera, surrounded by an endless vista of dunes and rock formations made of rust-red sandstone swirled with layers of cream limestone.
If it sounds like a fun way to spend a summer day, you’ve obviously never been forced to spend eight hours standing around in the middle of the Mojave Desert when the temperature is hitting triple digits. “It’s a dry heat,” they say. My ass.
The second we got back to the hotel, it was time for a costume change and a completely different makeup look for Monica, this time showcasing a lip color the company named especially for her—“Shore Thing,” it’s called—before she hopped into a fountain at Caesar’s Palace to prance around in lingerie. I was dying to call Brooklyn, or at least send a text, but with no service in the desert, my phone had already died searching in vain for a signal all morning.
From dawn till dusk the day after, it was more of the same. This photographer is a maniac. Monica’s been photographed in and out of limousines, wrapped around the tall white columns at Caesar’s pool, in a helicopter, at the Stratosphere’s 107thfloor rooftop bar with its glass floor, allowing you to see the Strip lit up below your feet. I’ve made sure Monica’s been pampered every step of the way, treated like the A-list model she is, but I’ve battled jet lag, an extreme dislike of hot weather, and a total lack of actual meals. Unlike (apparently) the rest of the crew, I don’t function well on a diet consisting solely of black coffee, champagne, and chewing gum.
Damn Guy for making me do this.
He’d called me personally to suggest I accompany Monica to the Vegas shoot to keep an eye on our “interests,” and since this campaign is so important to Danica Rose’s business, how could I argue with him? I understand that he wants me to ensure things run smoothly and that Monica puts her best foot forward for Maxilene. But I’m miserable.
There was a time when I loved going to shoots. When I’d actually argue with Stefan to let me represent the agency instead of him. I didn’t do it for the business, though. I did it because it gave me the opportunity to be surrounded by models who fell over themselves to flirt with me, fighting to be the one I took home for the night. Pussy was my main motivator then.
Now? I’d rather be sitting next to Brooklyn on our couch, watching TV with the dog.
