Chapter 1
Chapter One
REBEKKA
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I pace the penthouse apartment that I’ve lived in for the past three years—though never once has it felt like home. My Jimmy Choos click over the cold marble flooring, the sound echoing off the walls like a war drum. My husband is late—again.
There will be war if Anthony lets me down.
Tonight is a big night for me, and he knows it.
The Irish Literary Awards are the pinnacle of the cultural calendar, and this year Remington Publishing is not only the main sponsor—we’re the host. Months of planning, endless meetings, and sleepless nights have led to this evening.
I’ve rewritten my speech five times, agonised over every detail, and even had a custom made gown flown in from New York.
All I need now is for my husband to show up, stand by my side, and play the part of the devoted De Courcy heir, the same way I’ve stood by him so many times and played the part of devoted wife—even if the reality couldn’t be further from the truth.
My marriage is a shambles. My father’s gambling debts were the beginning of the end.
Decades of Remington prestige undone by one man’s weakness.
Investors fled, creditors circled, and our family name was dragged to the brink of ruin.
The De Courcy bank swooped in like saviours, with polished smiles and promises of rescue.
But the price of salvation wasn’t just money.
It was me.
Marriage to Anthony bound me to Dublin, where I was handed the shiny title of CEO of Remington Publishing Ireland. I love my job. Love the business I’ve built. It’s my baby.
It’s just a shame I had to trade my freedom, my sanity—and my very soul to keep it.
I glance at the Rolex Oyster clock on the wall—another one of Anthony’s prized possessions—just like me. He takes me out every once in a while. Plays with me occasionally—for his pleasure—never mine, then when he gets bored, he acquires another shiny possession.
He’s had numerous affairs throughout our marriage. The first few stung, not because I expected him to be faithful—our marriage was born out of duty rather than love, but I expected him to at least try to attempt to hide them from me.
In the beginning, I had hoped we might grow to love each other, or at least co-exist respectfully. But while having a wife from a prestigious family looks great on paper, my husband resents me. Resents being forced into this marriage as I was, and every so often, he likes to remind me of that.
Usually on nights like this.
Bastard.
I grab my sequinned clutch from the mahogany sideboard and march towards the front door in search of Patrick, my driver. I yank the handle down and pull the door open to find Anthony standing in front of it with his key poised mid-air.
‘Nice of you to make an appearance.’ I roll my eyes skyward, spotting the lipstick mark on his collar in the process.
Whenever things are going well for me professionally, he tends to punish me personally.
I have no idea how I’m going to endure a lifetime of this, but in our circles, people don’t get divorced.
And to make sure of it, my shrewd mother-in-law included a clause in our prenup.
Even without the clauses, I’m not stupid enough to think he would ever grant me a divorce. He wouldn’t give me one out of spite. Like I said, I’m a possession to him.
‘I got tied up at work.’ His smirk infers he means literally.
‘We need to leave.’ My gaze lingers on his collar. ‘You need to change. I’ll meet you in the car.’
He pauses for a long beat, and I send up a silent prayer he’s not going to have one of his hissy fits. His tantrums are as frequent as his affairs. ‘Fine,’ he concedes reluctantly.
I sidestep, darting around him, then take the elevator to the ground floor.
It’s raining outside as usual. I sigh. I miss New York.
Miss the hustle and bustle of the city. Miss the sunny evenings sipping champagne with my friends at Darling—the rooftop bar overlooking Central Park. And I miss proper bagels.
I cross the floor to where Patrick is talking with Paul, one of the security staff.
‘Mrs De Courcy.’ Patrick nods his head as he greets me.
‘Please. It’s Rebekka.’ I’ve begged him a million times not to call me that.
I might be Anthony’s wife, but I point blank refuse to change my name—a fact which I know bugs the hell out of my husband.
Naturally, that only makes me dig my heels in further.
He holds the door open and helps me into the Audi A8 where I wait, watching as the commuters pass by, oblivious to my inner turmoil and utter fucking miserable marriage.
My phone vibrates with a text.
Mom: Good luck tonight, sweetie. You will crush it. We appreciate everything you’ve done for this family. xxx
My chest constricts. Father might be a gambling asshole, but my mother is my best friend. She knows my marriage isn’t exactly a bed of roses, but I’ve tried to hide from her exactly how horrific things are.
They weren’t always this way.
We both tried in the beginning.
Then we simply found each other trying.
I blink back the tears threatening my eyes before they can ruin my make up. My highly polished image is my armour against the world—and against him. No matter how lonely I feel, how isolated, how fucking desperate, I’ll never let Anthony see it. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
The dreary evening reflects my inner gloom. I push it down and plaster a smile on my face as Anthony steps out of the building wearing a black tuxedo and a crisp white shirt. The man is a bastard, but he’s not a bad-looking bastard. It’s not hard to see why women flock to him.
Patrick opens the car door, and he slides in the back beside me, placing a possessive hand on my leg. He always does this when we’re in company—either smothers me with unwanted attention or point blank ignores me. It gives me whiplash.
Tonight, he squeezes my thigh, hard enough to bruise.
His smile is razor sharp. I swat his hand away, and the gold bracelet on my right wrist tinkles as the charms catch against each other with a delicate chime.
Anthony looks down with disgust. ‘Why do you insist on wearing that tacky thing?’ he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear.
It’s not tacky. It’s a twenty-four carat gold Cartier, a record of my mother’s love mapped across my wrist. She gifted me a charm for every memorable milestone since I turned twenty-one. It’s the only piece of home I ever carry with me. And Anthony knows it.
I stare straight ahead, refusing to give him the reaction he craves.
Finally, Patrick pulls the Audi up to the steps of Dublin’s iconic Mansion House.
Flashbulbs explode in the drizzle as umbrellas sprout like mushrooms along the red carpet.
Anthony straightens his cuffs, slides his mask of charm into place, then steps out first. He offers his hand like we’re the picture of marital bliss.
I plaster my smile on and slip my palm into his, every click of the camera capturing the lie of our lives.
Inside the building, warmth and light envelop me. Chandeliers sparkle overhead, spilling light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. My PA, Serena, is waiting by the cloakroom doors, clipboard clutched to her chest, her headset slightly askew in her rush to get to me.
‘Ms Remington—thank God.’ She knows better than to call me by my married name. ‘The Minister for Culture is eager to say hello before dinner. Oh, and Alex Carden is already here—he wants a word about his next contract.’
I nod, my eyes already sweeping the glittering foyer. Celebrities cluster like jewels, champagne flutes catching the light. Alex Carden, Ireland’s hottest new crime novelist, is holding court in a sharp three-piece suit, gesturing wildly as journalists scribble down every word he utters.
The crowd hums with money, influence, and ego—but none bigger than my husband’s.
Anthony squeezes my waist for the cameras one last time before his mask slips.
‘Bankers to schmooze,’ he mutters, pressing a perfunctory kiss to my cheek before striding off towards a knot of grey-haired men in tuxedos.
They part for him as though he’s royalty.
I fight the urge to wipe the spot his lips just polluted and exhale the breath I’d been holding.
My shoulders square as I follow Serena through the opulent archways to where the drinks reception is being held.
The air is thick with expensive cologne, the fizz of champagne, and the murmur of polite conversation.
Waiters circle with silver trays, the champagne flutes catching the light like little shards of glass.
I spot the Minister for Culture across the room, surrounded by well-wishers, his polished smile turns firmly in my direction. I fix mine in place and start towards him.
And then I see him.
Rian Beckett.
The ridiculously hot, flirtatious guy from my engagement party.
Our best man.
My husband’s best friend.
One of the few friends I’ve made since I moved to this country.
And the only man I think about when I close my eyes.
He’s leaning against the bar like he owns it. He might do, for all I know. He owns a string of them—including a gentlemen’s club—which I’m more curious about than I have any right to be. Does he avail of the private dances it’s so famous for?
Does he fuck the women who work for him?
And why does that thought set an irrational surge of jealousy searing through my soul?
His blazing black eyes find mine through the crowd as if he senses my arrival like an animal scenting his mate.
My stomach flips.
He’s as devastatingly handsome as always in an impeccably tailored tux that sculpts his broad shoulders and emphasises the curves of his biceps.
His glossy, ink-coloured hair gleams beneath the spotlights.
Not for the first time, I wonder what it would be like to rake my fingers through as I writhe beneath him.
And just like the first night in the De Courcy library, he sets my heart pounding in an erratic rhythm that it has no right to feel.