Cameras & Chemistry
Chapter thirty-nine
Marlow
Declan and I have been…becoming acquainted. He’s gone all in on taking care of me—cooking, forcing me to sleep, stocking the house and office with actual vegetables—and I’ve stopped pretending I’m not falling for my fake husband.
“Marlow Mills?” I answer.
“Marlow! Chelsea Raymond with SightUnseen. So glad I caught you before it was too late.”
My heart kicks. “Chelsea! Hi! What are you doing calling? I mean, how are you?”
She giggles. “I keep odd hours, so I forget normal people stop taking calls by now. But I wanted to see if you’d be up for a visit from the crew tomorrow?”
“Um… tomorrow? So soon?”
“They’re called pop-up visits for a reason!”
“Right,” I say, stalling, twisting the hem of my sweatshirt between my fingers. “I just need to make sure Declan will be in town—he is a traveling athlete and all.”
“Good idea! I mean, sure, we could just meet with you, but it would be great to see your chemistry in person! I’ve seen the tapes from your time in the pods and, let’s just say, you two are the couple we are all rooting for!”
I blink, preparing to full on lose my shit. “There’s…footage? From the pods? Has any of it aired?”
Chelsea lets out an airy laugh. “Oh, honey. You really didn’t read anything you signed, did you?”
I thought I did. I thought I combed through every clause, every NDA, every stack of papers they shoved in front of us.
But maybe I was too distracted. Too drunk.
Too busy trying to convince myself that getting legally married to a man I’d only known through a wall wasn’t the dumbest idea of my life.
“There were cameras everywhere except your honeymoon suite,” Chelsea continues brightly. “And no, to answer your other question, none of your sessions have aired or been teased yet. Declan made sure of that when he called in last week.”
I freeze. “Declan called? Last week?”
“Yes. He didn’t tell you? He said you were stressed at work and he wanted to make sure that none of the footage got leaked that would make your life more difficult.”
I press the phone harder to my ear, trying to process. Declan called them? On his own? To protect me?
My chest squeezes. Damn it. He takes care of me even when I don’t realize it. Even when I don’t ask. Even when I don’t deserve it. I really am falling for this man.
“How about I check in tomorrow morning to see if Declan will be around?” Chelsea’s voice cuts back in, snapping me out of my spiraling. “I’m really not supposed to give you this much heads-up, but like I said, it would be great to see you two together. Authentic. Unscripted.”
I swallow. Authentic. Unscripted. Exactly what I’ve tried to avoid being with him—and exactly what I can’t stop myself from becoming the moment he’s near.
Around Declan, every guard I’ve built slips, every mask falls away.
With him, I am nothing but myself. Unmasked. Unfiltered. Authentic and unscripted.
“Sure, Chelsea,” I manage. “Check back tomorrow morning.”
We hang up, and I immediately call Declan. He’s out with a few teammates. Boys’ night and I hate to bother him, but we need to strategize.
Two rings. No answer.
I call again. No answer.
Fine. He’s the one who set up location sharing on our phones. I tap the map.
And freeze.
The Supper Club.
“Are you kidding me?! You’re at a fucking sex club?” I yell at no one.
I fire off a group text.
Me: Stand-Ins! Treat as urgent! Assemble! Meet me at The Supper Club!
Tatum replies in two seconds.
Tatum: Sounds all kinds of kinky. Count me in.
Eslin takes a beat.
Eslin: I don’t know what we’re in for, but I could use whatever you’ve got in mind.
I call my driver, pacing the sidewalk while I wait, anger buzzing beneath my skin like static. By the time the car door shuts behind me, I’m practically vibrating.
The whole ride over, I chew myself out in circles. For letting him charm me with that lazy grin and those damned tattoos. For letting my guard down because of his tenderness I didn’t see coming. Because of the way he says wife like it means something. Like I mean something.
Clearly, I don’t.
Because I’m sitting in the backseat of a black SUV, heading straight to The Supper Club.
The Supper. Fucking. Club. A place that screams indulgence, secrecy, public sin.
If he’s in there, of all places, it’s not just betrayal—it’s humiliating.
It’s Declan telling the world what I didn’t want to admit to myself: I let him in far enough to hurt me.
Good thing no one really knows about us. Because if the world knew—if there was even a chance that the world could see me heading to a sex club to hunt down my cheating husband—it would certainly end us for real. It feels like it’s ending us now.
Each block the driver carries me closer, each second I sit stewing in the backseat, I can feel something unraveling inside me. Whatever fragile, dangerous thread had been tying me to Declan—his tenderness, his persistence, the illusion of safety he gave me—it’s snapping one coil at a time.
And the worst part? It’s not just anger burning through me. It’s disappointment. It’s heartbreak.
Because I thought he was different.
My nails dig crescents into my palms as I replay every soft look, every breakfast he cooked, every night he insisted I get rest, every time he reached for my hand like it was his right. I let myself believe he was different. My husband. Ha.
By the time we pull up to the curb, I’m a storm in sneakers, ready to explode.
And there they are—Eslin and Tatum—waiting for me on the curb like two avenging angels. Both in lethal black dresses, heels sharp enough to end a man, their faces carved with curiosity and the promise of danger.
I explain, my voice tight with rage. “My husband’s phone is pinging inside. Which means he’s inside. Which means I’m about to go cut a bitch!”
“I’m really loving this bad bitch side of you! Who knew you had a little violent streak?” Tatum teases.
Eslin raises a single finger, professor-mode activated, before letting her gaze sweep down over her and Tatum’s outfits.
“Um. Okay. So, love the energy. And you know we got your back and all, but I feel like maybe…just maybe…you should have warned us about what we were doing beforehand. Because clearly—” she gestures to her plunging neckline, “—we are dressed for the wrong occasion. And I usually carry vaseline for things like this.”
I raise a brow. “Vaseline?”
Before I can respond, Tatum mutters, “Clearly, you have no idea who you’re dealing with,” and spins on her heel like an action hero mid-scene.
“Where the hell are you going?” I call after her.
“brB!” she shouts over her shoulder, sprinting toward the valet stand like she’s about to tackle someone and steal their car. The poor valet boys scatter, not sure if they should stop her or just get out of her way.
Two minutes later, she reappears smirking, clutching a massive black duffel bag like it’s Santa’s sack of vengeance. She drops it at our feet with a dramatic thud.
I frown.“What’s this?”
She huffs like it’s obvious. “Thankfully, I always travel prepared for either a workout or a beat down. The attire is the same either way.”
“I’m sorry?” I blink.
“There are workout outfits in here that me and Eslin can change into. Extra shoes and everything. Once we’re inside, we’ll use the facilities, put our sexy clothes in a locker, and then go yank some slut off your husband’s dick.”
Eslin and I trade a look. Then shrug in unison.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I say.