Chapter 22 Rebekka
Chapter Twenty-Two
REBEKKA
I spent the days between Christmas and New Year sorting out the issues with the author who was threatening to defect, and fixing the marketing campaign that was going wildly off-track.
Both seem to be fairly back on track now, thank God for small mercies.
Throwing myself straight back into work was the only way I could get Rian and the events of Christmas out of my head.
Who am I kidding?
They’re there no matter what I do. Images of Rian’s head buried between my legs, his big black eyes boring into mine, are burnt into my brain forever—both a blessing and a curse.
Anthony returned from his trip to Dubai.
He must have felt some sliver of remorse because he brought me back a limited-edition Givenchy gold plated handbag and a bottle of the new Tom Ford perfume.
Neither of them makes up for the way he treats me, but after letting his best friend—our best man—into my bed, am I any better?
What should I buy him for letting Rian go down on me?
Aftershave?
New golf clubs?
A watch?
This is so fucked up it’s not even funny.
I am beyond grateful Rian and I didn’t actually have sex.
What happened between us was bad enough.
Okay, there was nothing bad about it. It was fucking sensational.
I’ve been missing out my entire life. Kind of cruel of him to show me at this stage.
But as the saying goes, better to have loved and lost than never loved at all…
and turns out, I fucking love oral. The way he did it anyway…
Stop it, Rebekka.
Stop it now.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and my husband has actually said we’re going out tonight—as a tradition, we always go to the Shelbourne for dinner. He likes to be seen there. He likes us to be seen there. Apparently it’s a strong way to start the financial year… Who said romance was dead?
Anthony hasn’t come near me since he got home three days ago–apart from shoving his guilt gifts at me, but the press are still under the illusion we’re one of these mythical power couples.
One wrong snap in Dubai with his PA would put paid to that.
But still, dinner out is better than crying into yet another bottle of Bollinger, right?
I pad barefoot down the wide spacious corridor in search of coffee.
It’s barely six a.m., but I’ve been struggling to sleep the past few nights, even with the meditations.
Guilt is an awful thing. Guilt and pining.
I wonder if my husband struggles to sleep?
If the way he’s prancing around the kitchen is anything to go by, obviously not.
His head whips up as he hears me approach. ‘Rebekka.’
‘You’re up early,’ I comment dryly. It’s impossible to summon any warmth for the man I married. I can do neutral at a stretch, but not warmth. I can’t even fake it these days. Not the last eighteen months anyway.
‘I, er…’ His eyes stray to his overnight bag by the front door. ‘I’m going away for a couple of days.’ I can smell his aftershave from here, and not in a good way. I take in his navy chinos, pale pink shirt and navy sports jacket. Eugh.
I scoff. ‘Don’t tell me. Business.’
His face screws into a scowl. ‘Let’s not pretend you don’t enjoy the fruits of my labour,’ he snaps, sweeping a hand around our opulent kitchen.
Rage rips through me. I’m so over his bullshit. I can’t imagine putting up with it for another week, let alone a lifetime. ‘Let’s not pretend you’re not fucking your PA and calling it work. I don’t give a flying fuck, but don’t insult my intelligence, you asshole.’
His defence mechanism kicks in with full force. ‘Maybe if you were a better fuck, I wouldn’t have to.’
Ouch. I force out a laugh, refusing to let him see how much his comment hurt me. ‘So, it’s my fault you can’t keep your tiny dick in your pants?’
‘Maybe it is,’ he spits.
I don’t like the way his dark eyes are roving over my bare legs—I threw on the same shorts and sweater I wore on Christmas Day.
In fact, I’ve barely worn anything else since.
He prowls towards me. I take a step back.
I don’t think he’d hurt me, but what do I know?
Three years of marriage and I know him no better than I did when I said “I do”.
I grab a coffee mug, partly because I’m in desperate need of caffeine and partly because I’m contemplating throwing it at his head if he tries to put his filthy hands on me. ‘Look, go fuck Sarah—’
‘It’s Sorcha,’ he snaps.
I know that, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of saying her name.
‘Whatever.’ I sigh, forcing an air of boredom even though my heart is pounding in my chest. ‘Do what you have to do, just don’t get caught.
I refuse to be made a fool of. If the press gets wind of this, I’ll become another one of those poor, pitied, pathetic women who turn a blind eye, and I refuse to be that person, okay? ’
‘So, you’re okay with the situation?’ His voice is dangerously low.
‘No, of course I’m not okay with the situation, but it has fuck all to do with Sandra, and more to do with toxicity between us, long before she came along.
’ I run my fingers through my hair. I sigh, resting my backside against the island.
The same island I was naked on a few days earlier.
‘Look, Anthony, let’s be honest here, we never hit it off.
Never found a mutual ground. We haven’t shared a bed for longer than we ever did.
Do you think maybe we should talk about a … ’
I let the D word hang between us, watching his face as it darkens to a vivid shade of purple as the penny drops.
‘Do you think I’d really allow you to divorce me?
Do you not remember the contract? Everything you own will be mine.
Everything you’ve worked for will be mine.
But even at that, there’s no way I’d grant you a divorce. Our kind don’t do that.’
‘By our kind, I take it you mean pompous assholes?’ I yell, my fingers tightening around the mug handle, ready to throw it at any second, but what good would that do? He’s not going to be the one who has to pick it up.
‘For better or for worse, my darling. And just so you know, you have it good. Things could be an awful lot worse. Take my word for it.’ He struts out of the kitchen, snatches up his bag and slams the door behind him.
Asshole.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my shorts. It can’t be my mother given the time difference.
My heart skips a beat.
Rian?
I pull it out and stare at the screen.
Ivy: Happy New Year! On the off chance you’re free, we’re all heading to the Beckett’s Wicklow Mansion for a couple of nights. We’d love you to join us.
She’s up early. I guess that’s what happens when you have kids. Will I ever find out? Anthony and I are expected to produce an heir at some point. His mother is forever dropping hints about grandchildren, but unless that baby is made in a test tube, it’s not looking likely.
An ache of longing strikes my sternum. I always imagined myself having kids one day, but that dream was centred around having them with someone I loved. Given I’m five years older than Anthony, I have less time to play with than he does.
And let’s be honest, how the hell could I bring a baby into this toxic environment that we call life?
My chest is tight. It feels like there’s no air in here. The urge to bang my head off the island is real. Escaping this penthouse is so tempting. As big as it is, it’s utterly suffocating. But if Rian’s going, can I trust myself not to throw myself at him?
Probably not.
I type out a quick reply.
Thanks for the invite but I’ve got a shitload of work to do. Happy New Year. Thank you for thinking of me. Cocktails soon. X
I help myself to a coffee, grab my laptop and take a seat at the island.
Three hours later, I’m still at the island, poring over a new author’s submission.
My coffee’s gone cold. I’ve reread the same paragraph so often the words have started to blur.
Work was supposed to be my distraction, but my brain keeps drifting to Ivy’s invite.
To Wicklow. To a man I shouldn’t even be thinking about.
The sudden banging on the front door jolts me. I’m not expecting anyone.
For a brief second, I dare to hope it’s Rian. I drag my fingers through my hair, glance down at my casual loungewear and shrug. He’s seen it all before. Including what’s underneath.
But when I open the door, it’s not him standing there. It’s Scarlett, Avery and Ivy that burst through it.
‘Happy New Year!’ Scarlett beams. They push past me and head straight into the kitchen. I follow them in wondering what the hell is going on.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to Wicklow?’ I say, throwing my hands up in the air.
‘We’re staging an interfriendshen,’ Avery says, shrugging out of a cream wool coat and brandishing a bottle of champagne. ‘We’re not letting you ring in the new year with your laptop. You’re coming with us.’
Ivy drops her Marc Jacobs tote onto the floor, her eyes softening as they take in my sweater, messy bun and the coffee beside my laptop. ‘Please come with us, Bekka. The house is all decked out. There’s talk of snow. The fire will be roaring from dawn to midnight.’
Scarlett flinches. Ivy told me Scarlett’s mother burned to death when she was a teenager. Apparently, James paid a serious amount for a counsellor to help her even sit in the same room with an open fire. We all have our issues.
‘It’ll be fun.’ Scarlett recovers quickly. I guess the counselling helped. Maybe I should get some myself.
‘Fun?’ Ivy mimics. ‘It’ll be a fucking blast. Trust me.’
They dissolve into girlish laughter. Their energy fills every inch of the penthouse, scattering the morning’s heaviness. For the first time all morning, I can breathe properly.
‘Besides, we need all the details of how you and Baby Beckett spent Christmas Day…’ Scarlett’s silver eyes gleam.
‘He told you about that?’ My palm flies to my mouth.
‘Not exactly,’ Avery grins, ‘but you just told us that there’s something to tell!’
I groan, squeezing my eyes shut tightly. Ivy glances at the camera in the corner of the room. ‘Wait! Is that thing off?’
‘Yes.’ I switched it off the second my darling husband left the building.
‘Right, pop that bottle,’ Ivy demands, pointing at the champagne, ‘Tell us everything, then go pack a bag. Thomson is waiting in the car downstairs for us. I told him we’d only be ten minutes, so make it fast!’
How can I admit I’m obsessed with their brother-in-law?
I can’t.
‘There’s not much to tell.’ I shift from one foot to the other. I’m not convincing any of us. Three sets of eyes stare back at me. I head for the cupboard to fetch champagne flutes, feeling the weight of their gaze on my back.
‘Okay, we’ll continue this conversation after alcohol,’ Avery decides. ‘But I need to know if baby Beckett’s dick is as big as he claims it is.’
Unfortunately, so do I.