Chapter 3
Chapter Three
REBEKKA
The press love me this week.
Visionary. Elegant. Poised. Their words splash across the arts pages beside several photographs of me on the stage. My speech is quoted in three different outlets, the reviews glowing enough to make even my father proud—well, they would do, if he cared about anything beyond his next drink.
I should be glowing. I should be basking in the success of the biggest night of my career. Instead, all I can think about is the brush of lips against my cheek.
That familiar masculine scent.
Those big brown orbs, so dark they’re almost black.
Rian Beckett.
I’ve thought about the night we met a million times since.
In the beginning, I brushed it off as a harmless flirtation, but that sizzling attraction between us hasn’t faded over the years.
No, it’s got gradually stronger with every agonising minute we’re together.
We’ve spent holidays skiing with Ivy and Caelon and the other Becketts. Birthdays. Christmases.
Although lately, we’ve been forced together less as Anthony has refused point blank to spend any time with me other than for formal social occasions—which frankly suits me down to the ground.
I didn’t realise how much I’d missed Rian though until I saw him again this week. I press the heel of my hand to my chest, as though I can rub away the memory.
I can’t.
The warmth of his mouth lingers on my cheek, the weight of his words burrows deeper than the praise in every article stacked on my desk.
Beautiful.
Stunning.
You’ll kill it tonight.
Words Anthony has never said to me—not even in the beginning. Words I didn’t know I was starving for until Rian fed them to me.
I woke up in my four-poster bed alone—as usual—Anthony and I haven’t even tried to share a room in over a year, with guilt eating at me for something that I didn’t even do.
Thinking salacious thoughts about another man might be immoral, but it isn’t a crime.
I bet my husband hasn’t beat himself up once, and I know for a fact he’s done a lot worse than think inappropriate thoughts about someone other than his spouse.
It really is a man’s world.
My phone buzzes across the glass-topped desk, dragging me out of my spiralling thoughts.
Ivy. She’s one of the few genuine friends I’ve made here.
In fact, now I think about it, the only genuine friends I’ve made here are all Becketts—by marriage.
Scarlett, my other friend, is married to Rian’s oldest brother, James.
Avery, another friend, is engaged to Killian, Rian’s slightly scary middle brother.
Why, oh why, couldn’t my arranged marriage have been to Rian?
I swipe to answer Ivy’s call.
‘Bekka! Congratulations again on the other night—you were amazing. I swear, you had the entire room eating out of your hand.’ Ivy’s voice is pure vibrant sunshine, a welcome contrast to the perpetual greyness of Dublin’s sky pressing against my office window.
‘Thank you,’ I murmur, throat tightening. ‘It went… well, I guess.’ Anthony’s words from the car ride home float through my mind. ‘You talked too much. Too fast. No one cares.’
‘Well? It went brilliantly,’ she laughs. ‘Have you seen the write-ups from the press? They loved you. You should be so proud.’
‘I suppose…’ My eyes flick to my computer screen. Why is accepting a compliment so challenging?
‘We should celebrate! I was thinking… drinks after work? Caelon can babysit for once.’
I hesitate. Anthony would hate it. Anthony hates anything that gives me joy. But he’s in Paris for a few days. He told me it’s for work, but I know he’s away with his PA. I’m not stupid. As long as he doesn’t flaunt his floozy in my face, I can’t bring myself to care.
‘Come on,’ Ivy teases, as though sensing my resistance. ‘Cocktails. Tapas. Girl talk. No speeches required. Scarlett and Avery are coming.’
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. ‘Alright. Drinks it is. Which bar?’
‘Elixir. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.’ She hangs up before I can protest.
Elixir.
Relief trickles through me at the name. One of Dublin’s chicest wine bars, known for its enviable wine cellar—and not one of Rian’s places. I should be grateful. The last thing I need is him setting my soul on fire while I’m trying to chill out.
And yet… I can’t deny there’s a flicker of disappointment burning inside too.
Pathetic.
I shake my head at myself as I gather my things.
He’s Anthony’s best friend. Off limits. Even if he weren’t, he’s five years younger than me and Dublin’s most notorious playboy.
I’ve watched him leave more nightclubs than I can count with a different woman on his arm—blonde, brunette, redhead, take your pick.
And every single time, it’s cut way deeper than any of Anthony’s betrayals.
Which is a thought I refuse to analyse.
I step out of the Remington offices just after six, the October chill biting at my bare legs as I tug my coat tighter around me.
Dublin traffic is a snarl of brake lights and honking horns, rush-hour chaos wrapping the city in a restless hum.
Patrick already has the Audi idling at the kerb, the rear door open and waiting.
‘Home, Mrs De Courcy?’ he asks as I slide into the back seat.
The leather is cool against the back of my thighs.
My slim fitting black Victoria Beckham dress pulls tight as I settle in.
It’s elegant, chic, not exactly clubbing attire, but good enough for a Friday night in one of the city’s fanciest wine bars.
‘No. And it’s Rebekka, please.’ I smooth my dress over my thighs and flick my gaze up to meet his in the rear-view mirror. ‘Take me to Elixir.’
There’s a beat of silence. His eyes hold mine, questioning, though he doesn’t dare voice it. He might be my driver, but at the end of the day, he works for Anthony.
I arch a brow, daring him to challenge me.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says at last, indicating, then pulling out into the traffic.
When did going out for a drink start to feel like rebellion? Does he arch his eyebrows at Anthony when he goes to dinner with another woman?
Like I said—it’s a man’s world.
If I didn’t need a drink before, I do now.
Patrick noses the Audi into a space outside Elixir, the glowing script sign reflected in the perpetual drizzle on the pavement. He kills the engine and moves to open my door.
‘Shall I escort you inside, Mrs De Courcy?’
It takes all my energy not to roll my eyes. Instead, I muster a small smile as I step out. ‘No need. Between Avery, Scarlett, and Ivy, there’ll be more Beckett security drifting around than the Secret Service.’
His mouth twitches, but he nods and returns to the car.
I tug my coat tighter and step inside. The hot air hits me, along with the scent of a million different perfumes.
Elixir hums with energy. The low thrum of bass-heavy lounge music vibrates beneath my Manolo Blahnik heels as I cross the polished parquet floor.
Crystal chandeliers throw dim light over sleek marble tables, each one dotted with flickering, expensive looking candles.
The clink of glass against glass punctuates the murmur of laughter and conversation.
I scan the room and spot them immediately.
Scarlett’s silver eyes catch mine first, her glossy ebony hair gleaming as she leans forward in the plush booth. Beside her, Avery tosses her blonde hair over one shoulder, then waves at me. Ivy, glowing and golden, raises her glass in greeting, her smile as warm as her voice had been on the phone.
Relief eases through me as I weave my way through the crowded bar.
These women are the closest thing to family I’ve found here.
My in-laws are welcoming but not overly warm.
Anthony is their golden boy. I get the impression they think it’s somehow my fault he can’t keep it in his pants.
They’re aware of his affairs, and like me, they turn a blind eye.
If Marianne asks me one more time if I’ve thought about having a baby, I might actually explode, though.
How the hell can I have a baby?
Apart from the fact you need to have sex to make one—something which Anthony and I don’t do anymore—I already have a baby to mind—her son. His mood swings are worse than a toddler.
But while I stumbled into the wrong family, at least I stumbled into the right friendships.
Avery shuffles along the velvet banquette to make room, the sequins on her top glittering in the low light. ‘Finally,’ she teases, blue eyes sparkling. ‘I was about to drink your cocktail for you. Can’t beat a Dirty Martini.’
‘She would’ve too,’ Scarlett says dryly, sliding my drink across the table. I accept it gratefully as she flags down a passing barman.
‘Let’s get four more Dirty Martinis. Drink up, Rebekka. You’re playing catch up. We’re out for a good time, not for a long time!’ Ivy winks.
The barman takes our order, then drifts away.
‘I’m lucky to have made it, Beks.’ Scarlett tells me.
My heart warms at her easy abbreviation of my name.
‘Between the girls and James Junior, I nearly didn’t.
The baby decided tonight was the perfect time for a screaming contest.’ She exhales, but there’s no missing the affection in her tone.
‘Three kids under four—I’m running on caffeine, champagne, and sheer bloody stubbornness. ’
I lift my glass to my lips.
‘Don’t forget the orgasms.’ Avery winks, slapping the table. ‘We all know your husband can’t leave you alone.’
I almost choke on my drink, but eventually manage to down it in four huge mouthfuls.
‘Go, girl!’ Ivy puts her hand out for a high five. I hit my palm off hers then dab the corner of my mouth.
‘Those Beckett brothers certainly know how to deliver on the orgasm front,’ Avery snorts, leaning across to clink Scarlett’s glass. Her blue eyes glitter.
‘They certainly do,’ Ivy laughs, tossing her hair.
What I wouldn't do to find out. I glance around the bar for any sign of our cocktails. I need another one now.
Or ten.