2. Luka
LUKA
It’s been two full days and I can’t take another second of being cooped up in this prison.
Brooklyn has tried to grab any opportunity to try to talk, to make me listen to her excuses and lies, but I’ve become deft at shutting her out.
We’ve been ordering room service for every meal, eating in separate rooms, and haven’t left the suite once.
Everyone thinks they know what we’re doing, locking ourselves away in here.
We’re on our honeymoon, after all. We should be having nonstop sex.
But what I’m really experiencing is pure hell.
I can feel the constant tension despite the closed door between us, and I’m sick of listening to the same playlist of loud, angry songs on shuffle.
I step out on the balcony outside my bedroom and stretch as I take in the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
Bright morning light spills over the treetops and cathedral spires, and the air is just starting to turn warm, carrying the scent of spring flowers.
But even Paris gets boring when your view never changes. I want out of here.
Stretching my legs as I walk around the city and letting my mind wander sounds like heaven.
I’d love to be able to focus on something other than what Brooklyn did to me.
But unfortunately, I can’t be seen out in public without my bride.
It wouldn’t be good for PR. So I guess that leaves me with only one choice if I have any hope of setting foot outside this cell.
Throwing open the bedroom door, I start to speak to Brooklyn but then stop in my tracks and do a double take as I realize the sitting room looks different.
“Everything okay?” she asks, but I don’t respond as I look around at what she’s done.
All of her personal effects are organized and tucked away.
The windows are open, the curtains tied back.
She’s arranged an oversized chair with a pillow and blanket in the corner, near the largest window.
A black satin teddy hangs over the back of the chair, taunting me.
Did she wear that when she went to bed last night?
Did the hem ride up her tight thighs while she slept?
Fuck. I can’t afford to let my mind go there.
She’s looking at me curiously, obviously still waiting for me to say something. As I take her in fully, I realize she’s lounging in a boxy tee shirt that barely covers her ass. I look away.
“We’re going out,” I bark.
“Where?” Brooklyn’s face lights up. “To do what?”
“Nothing fancy,” I tell her, purposely shooting her down. “Get dressed.”
I go back in my room and move to shut the door, then decide to keep it open. I might despise her, but she’s still mine. She’s under my command, and she needs to be aware of that.
Pushing the door wider, I cross my arms and make it very clear that I’m going to keep an eye on her every move. After a quick glance at me, Brooklyn walks out of view into the foyer. I hear the bathroom door click shut a second later.
Grinding my jaw, I go deeper into my room and pick out my own clothes, dressing in a hurry as I ponder what we’re going to do today. Anything. Nothing.
What she deserves is to be punished—I don’t want her to enjoy herself.
Don’t want to provide her with a leisurely parade around the City of Lights.
Not after what she’s done. So I’ll keep our activities to the basics.
No upscale brasseries or basement jazz clubs or locals-only cafés.
In fact, I’m not going to bring her to a single one of the secret spots I had originally planned on impressing her with.
I look in the mirror and adjust the cuffs of my shirt.
I don’t know why this has been such a shock.
Brooklyn hasn’t done anything to me that scores of other women haven’t done before.
Women have used me for as long as I can remember.
And I’ve used them right back. Why not? I’ve got the looks and the money to give most of them what they’re after.
Pretty pictures for their social media accounts. Entertainment. Access to the kinds of VIP restaurants, clubs, and parties they wouldn’t otherwise get into. Unbelievable sex. I get laid; they get pampered.
Done deal.
I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that Brooklyn was self-serving in how she used me.
It’s nothing more than I might have done, had the tables been turned.
But I have no plans for the future yet. Every time I try to think about my next steps, the betrayal hits me hard all over again.
It’s an unfamiliar predicament to be in.
No other woman has made me feel like this before.
I just need to get through Paris. Once I’m back in Chicago, it’ll be easier to figure out what to do.
The only reason I’m having a hard time right now is because we’re on our fucking honeymoon.
I can’t wrap my head around the disconnect between what’s supposed to be happening and what actually happened.
She quietly reenters the sitting room and I lean back against the bed to take in her sexy form.
Then she turns her back to me and slowly pulls her tee shirt over her head.
I hiss out a breath at the sight of her back, the golden skin bare and slender, the dimples over her ass, her lacy thong disappearing between the naked globes.
She gives me the barest glance over her shoulder, lips quirked to one side as we make eye contact.
She knows I’m watching. My mouth is watering, and I can feel my balls tighten.
Sauntering to her suitcase, she bends to grab some clothes, giving me a full view of that perfect ass.
My pulse kicks up another notch and I have to adjust my pants as she steps into a pair of skinny jeans that conform to her long, toned legs.
Sans bra, she slides into a filmy, pale pink blouse.
The back is cut out, showing off the strong lines of her back.
She’s taunting me. Luring me. Trying to force me to forgive her. It’s not going to work.
Brooklyn turns and pulls her hair back. The blouse drapes over her breasts with a delicate touch, the stiff peaks of her nipples clearly visible.
Anger flares to life inside me. Or maybe it’s sexual frustration. No, it’s both—and I don’t even care. I want her and I hate myself for it.
She turns her back to me again, her hands behind her head as she loops her hair into a twist at the nape of her neck. The giant diamond ring on her left hand flashes in the sunlit room, flaming the war of emotions inside me.
“I’m ready,” she says quietly and grabs her clutch, holding it between her hands while she quietly waits for me.
“Then let’s go.” I brush by her and she spins to catch up. I don’t wait. I open the door to the hall and go out first, not holding it for her. Not caring if it swings back in her face. It doesn’t, of course, and only when we reach the lobby do I slow down and allow her to walk beside me.
I jut my bent arm in her direction, but she hesitates to slip her hand over my elbow.
“We have an image to uphold, in case you’ve forgotten,” I hiss. “The public doesn’t need to know what a conniving liar you are.”
She lifts her chin and takes my arm. We both paste on fake smiles as another couple comes toward us. After they pass, she gives my arm a little squeeze. “Can we please talk, Luka?”
“There’s nothing you could say to me that I’m interested in hearing. Now smile big.”
Another couple, more fake smiles. Finally, we’re outside and the sunlight warms my face.
I feel a flash of relief until I remember the ugly reality of the situation.
With no destination in mind, we take a left and begin to wander.
Brooklyn’s grip tightens on my arm as she tilts her head back, taking in the sight of the sloped mansard roofs on the old buildings, the puffy white clouds, the sweet smells from a bakery that fill the air as we stroll down the sidewalk.
A woman stands outside the boulangerie, wearing a starched linen apron and holding a silver tray with various fruit and chocolate pastries cut into sample sizes. Her smile brightens when she sees us approach. Holding out the tray, she murmurs in French for us to try some.
Brooklyn moves to accept a treat, but I tell the woman, “Merci, mais non,” and subtly steer my wife away.
“Those are too good for you,” I whisper harshly when we’re out of range.
Her jaw drops. “But I’m starving!”
“Not my problem.”
She shoots me a glare, but I keep my gaze focused straight ahead.
“This is how it’s going to be, Luka? For real?” She’s walking faster now.
“Remember who started this. For clarity’s sake, it wasn’t me.”
There’s a crowd up ahead near a café, so we smile again and politely make our way through. Brooklyn slows her stride to assess what the people sitting at the sidewalk tables have on their plates as we pass. I pull her along, ignoring her irritated huff.
“We should eat if we’re going to be walking around the city all day,” she points out.
I scoff. “I’m not sitting down to share a meal with you. Besides, we had coffee and croissants this morning. You’re fine.”
“That was just a snack!” she protests.
“You can wait to eat in your own room back at the hotel.”
Brooklyn quickens her pace again, her jaw tightening. “You’re being a complete ass.”
I don’t know why she keeps setting herself up like this. “I wouldn’t have to be, if my wife wasn’t a liar.”
I have no patience, the irritation inside me building to a boiling point. This walk isn’t helping me blow off any steam. Brooklyn’s touch on my arm is bittersweet, and I just want to be done with this whole thing.
“I’m stopping for coffee,” she says, pulling away from me and marching toward a crêperie that has a street-facing window with a to-go counter.
Following her, I watch as she struggles with the menu, handwritten in French on a chalkboard.
At one point she glances over at me with her brows knit together, as if I might use my proficiency in the language to help her out.
I don’t. Finally, she goes up to the counter and stumbles through an order, paying with a credit card and returning with a café au lait in a gold paper cup and what looks like a ham, mushroom, and cheese crêpe wrapped in wax paper.
From the looks of it, she ordered well—but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of telling her that.
We start back down the street, and with both hands occupied, she can’t take my arm again. I’m both disappointed and relieved.
As she nibbles on her food, we wander. The blend of Gothic, Renaissance, and Classical architecture is captivating, and we walk in silence for a while just soaking it all in.
Until we both glance up to find laundry hanging out to dry between the peach-hued buildings and spy a fluttering, lacy white gown hanging haphazardly over the line, as if someone had simply tossed it out the window to land where it may.
Brooklyn pulls out her phone to capture the image, no doubt for her Insta followers. “I can almost see a story there,” she murmurs to herself as she swipes through various filters.
“I’m sensing a scorned lover,” I interject. “The groom probably had the good sense to call it off before he got screwed over.”
She looks up at me and frowns. “You can stop with the barbs anytime.”
“Why? If I have to live with this, so do you.”
“Live with what, Luka?” She tosses the remainder of her food in the trash, as if she’s lost her appetite.
“This prison of a marriage. I thought we at least respected and cared about each other. But you killed it, Brooklyn—any hope there was of making this marriage accommodating and tolerable for the next two years. So if I have to be fucking miserable, so the fuck do you.”
Her eyelids flutter and I feel a flicker of guilt, but it doesn’t last. I head in the direction of the Place Charles de Gaulle, and she catches up until we’re arm in arm again. When we finally reach the Arc de Triomphe, she gasps and pulls out her phone for another perfect Parisian snap.
“Can you take my picture?” she asks. I frown. “I need to look like I’m having a good time here,” she reminds me. “You don’t have to be in it.”
I know she’s right, so I oblige, opening the camera app and then centering her with the arch curving majestically just over her shoulder. She walks over to a nearby plaque and reads, “Commissioned by the Emperor Napoleon in 1806…”
“You know, Napoleon was betrayed by his own troops,” I say, walking up behind her. “I can only imagine how that felt. You want to climb the stairs to the top of the arch, honey?”
She looks up at me with a frown. “Let’s just go,” she says.
We get on the Metro at Etoile and take the line two subway to Montmartre, since I love the hike up to the Sacré-Coeur.
But as we approach the round white domes of the Sacred Heart basilica, we find a huge crowd of tourists taking pictures. We don’t even make it to the steps before three young women shyly approach us. They’re all tall, thin model types. Just the kind to know exactly who Brooklyn and I are.
“Oh my God, can we get a picture of you guys?” the tallest asks in perfect American English. She probably follows Brooklyn and Danica Rose Management’s social media accounts.
“Of course!” Brooklyn says, suddenly full of sunshine. She moves closer to me and I angle us with the cathedral to our backs.
“That’s great! How about a kiss? It’s your honeymoon!” The singsong way the girl says it makes me nauseous. Like we’re supposed to be head over heels every waking moment.
I work my jaw, then turn to look down at my new bride. I smile, keeping my venom to myself. Brooklyn knows it’s there, though—and by hell, she’s going to taste it.
Cupping the back of her head in my hand, I pull her hair and position her the way I want. I claim her mouth, hard and possessive. Let them think I’m in love with my wife, that I can’t wait to get her back to the hotel.
In reality, it takes everything inside me not to devour her in my anger. To drown her with the furious frenzy of lust and heartbreak and disappointment inside me.
I kiss her until she’s fucking breathless, and then I snap back, barely supporting her so she thinks I’m going to let her fall. But I don’t. I gather her up like a loving husband and swipe my thumb over her lips. Her stunned expression is laced with raw want.
I wink as I steady her and give a wave to the photographers. Taking Brooklyn’s arm, I steer her away, whispering low in her ear.
“See, sweetheart? I can fake it, too.”