44. Jules
CHAPTER 44
Jules
I hug the corner of the room, soaking in the spectacle—the glittering sea of celebrities and journalists, all decked out like they’ve stepped off the pages of Vogue . It’s the kind of event where hiding feels like survival.
But even in my little cocoon of anonymity, the deep rumble of a voice cuts through the hum of conversation.
“Ms. Spenser.”
I turn, and all breathing stops.
Standing before me is a walking god in a panty-melting tux. Tailored to perfection, it hugs every muscle, every hard line, in all the right ways. His wavy hair is the right level of just fucked, and that light stubble? My fingers itch to run across it.
And those eyes—normally ocean blue, but right now darkened to the midnight sky—hint to just the kind of night I’m in for.
But it’s the way he says “Ms. Spenser,” in that low, gruff tone like he’s tasting every syllable that makes me lose a little more of my mind .
It does things to my insides.
Sinful, criminal things.
And I love it when he calls me that, even though technically, I’m his wife—Mrs. Bishop. But when he leans in and gets all “Ms. Spenser” on me, I know I’m in for one hell of a night that’ll leave me wrecked and breathless, and barely able to function by morning.
It’s a fantasy we regularly slip into.
He looks so good, I’m damn near on the brink of begging him to rip this dress and throw me against the nearest wall.
I’m in awe, but I pretend I’m not. “You clean up pretty good, Bishop.”
“As do you, Ms. Spenser. I’d love to clean you up with my tongue. Starting with that pretty pussy of yours.”
I flush, suddenly feeling naked in my spaghetti-straps dress that hugs every curve like cellophane. I tug at the straps, praying my nipples don’t make a bid for freedom and take out an eye. “Down, boy,” I mutter below my breath. “It took the glam squad three hours to get me looking like this. You can’t ruin all their hard work right off the bat.”
“Three hours?” His brow shoots up, surprised.
I shrug, a smirk tugging at my lips. “It takes a village . . .”
He fakes an exasperated sigh. “Then I guess I’ll bide my time. Maybe work the room.” His hand slips into his pocket as he glances around casually. “I hear Sydney Sun is on the agenda.”
Wait—what? She is?
“After her last few emails, I’d like to say hello.”
I blink, confused. “She’s on the agenda?” I ask. And what emails ?
A slow smile spreads across his lips. Brian leans in, close enough for me to catch the warmth of his aftershave and the heat radiating from his chest.
My pulse spikes, and for a second, I almost think he’s about to say something suggestive. I brace myself, already anticipating how it’ll make my knees go absolutely weak.
But instead, his voice drops to a whisper. “You haven’t seen her, have you? Sydney Sun? We’ve been emailing for a while now.”
What?
My brain goes into a tailspin. A full-on death spiral. Sydney Sun—emailing him?
And he’s emailing her back?
And . . . he likes her.
A group of people drifts past, and he steps in closer. The heat of his brick wall body against mine. “She’s done so much for me, especially with my watch and all. I’d love to show her what she means to me. How deep our connection is. Since I have a few hours to kill...”
What the actual fuck?
Because three hours is too long for him to wait, and his dick needs an appetizer?
What the hell did fake Sydney Sun even say to him? Were they sexting? Sending photos?
Is this why he plans to work the room? He’s horny?
My chest tightens painfully, anger wrapping itself around something deeper—something raw and ugly. I’m hurt.
He wants her.
I can feel it in the way his voice drops to that low, breathy tone, in the bedroom eyes he’s flashing, and holy shit—the bulge in his pants isn’t exactly subtle.
Argh!
Focus, Jules. Bigger issues at hand.
Sydney’s on the agenda.
Sydney’s been emailing him.
But I’m Sydney.
Only . . . I’m not.
Shit, shit, shit. I can’t tell him off without telling him the truth. And if I tell him now, he’ll know I’ve been lying to him this entire time.
Not outright lying, I guess—I never said I wasn’t Sydney Sun. But we texted, we talked, and I had so many chances to tell him, “Brian, I am Sydney Sun.”
And now, it’s all unraveling. One second, we’re on solid ground, and the next, the earth is crumbling beneath my feet, everything I’ve built with him about to be ripped away, slipping through my fingers like it never even existed.
I open my mouth to speak, but it feels like sand in my throat. Nothing comes out. I could lose him.
Or maybe I’ve already lost him. With the way he fawns over Sydney Sun, like if he doesn’t have her soon, he’ll die—he isn’t mine.
My pulse thuds loudly in my ears and drowns out the world.
She’s not Sydney Sun. I am. But does that even matter anymore? Whoever he’s been speaking to, whatever connection they’ve made, feels...real. And it’s killing me.
But it’s also a lie, and this tight, suffocating ache in my chest, knowing I need to tell him the truth—I know I’ll be taking a blowtorch to everything we’ve tried to rebuild until there’s nothing left but rubble and ash.
I have to tell him. Now.
My lips part, the confession clawing up my throat, ready to be unleashed. But before I can say a word, a man interrupts, casually clearing his throat. “We’re ready for you, Mr. Bishop.”
“Ready?”
“Yes, from your RSVP. You’ll be introduced in a minute to present the Trailblazer Award for Journalism.”
“There must be some mistake.”
The man checks his clipboard. “That’s what I have here. If you’d like, I can have you speak with the production team.”
Brian gives an impatient nod, then leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek— my cheek . “I’ll be right back.”
And just like that, he’s gone, slipping through the crowd, leaving me standing there with my heart tossed carelessly back at me.
Stunned, I stand there, rooted to the spot like an idiot as I fight tears.
“Well, if it isn’t little miss waitress,” a voice sneers beside me.
I turn, dazed, staring blankly at a man with a three o’clock shadow and a lime in his gin and tonic. He looks vaguely familiar, but my mind is too scrambled to place him.
Honestly, the man could be the Easter Bunny, and I wouldn’t blink. My gaze is still locked on Brian, watching his every step as he disappears into the crowd, heading toward the stage.
Then, with a crooked smile and a ridiculously oversized watch that practically screams, I’m important, he says, “You should’ve fucked your way into my good graces when you had the chance.”
His words hit like a hard slap, knocking the wind right out of me. My pulse skyrockets into overdrive, and I realize who he is and how much I despise the guy.
It’s him. The sleaze bucket from Salvatore’s. The one who couldn’t stop dropping his name like bird crap, splattering it all over our very brief conversation.
Trent Mercer. Of Mercer Media.
And right about now, another helping of his shit is the last thing I need. Especially with my heart in shambles over Brian.
I spin on my heel, ready to walk away, to put as much distance between us as possible. But his hand snaps out, looping around my arm, his grip iron tight.
“Not so fast, Ms. Spenser. Or should I say Sydney Sun?”