1. Luka
LUKA
Brooklyn is packing in a fury. She storms around the penthouse grabbing her things, carrying clothes and toiletries and everything else into the guest room where her two suitcases lie open on the bed.
She’s still in her black gown from the Maxilene event, her heels making sharp clicks on the hardwood floor.
She hasn’t spoken to me since we got home.
Meanwhile I’m standing in the hall, not wanting to invade her space but not wanting to walk away either.
All I can do is watch my wife pack, and rack my brain trying to remember my conversations with the Maxilene rep.
What did I say that caused him to choose Monica Shore over my wife for the biggest campaign the company has ever planned to launch?
I would have bet my life on Brooklyn clinching this. I had no idea that when I opened that envelope to publicly announce the new face of Maxilene that I’d pull out a card with Monica’s name written on it. What the hell happened? Where did I go wrong?
Our greyhound, Mr. Kibbles, sits by Brooklyn’s feet.
His gaze shifts back and forth between us as she hastily folds some clothes, then loses patience and shoves them into the suitcase in a messy pile.
I haven’t fully processed what she’s doing yet.
Logically I know what she’s doing because I’m watching her from the doorway, but it hasn’t completely sunk in.
She’s leaving me.
And…she’s taking our dog.
Mr. Kibbles whines and slinks over to me for a pat on the head. He knows something is up, too, but my touch does little to comfort him. The anger radiating off Brooklyn has both the dog and me tied in knots. I’ve seen her angry before, furious even, but not like this.
This is something else entirely.
“Please,” I say gently. “Talk to me. Say something.”
“What do you want me to say? That I know you’re a liar? The same liar you’ve always been?” she says, her voice deadly calm. “I swear to God, Luka, every time I put my trust in you, I get stabbed in the back! Every time! I can’t believe I fell for your bullshit again.”
She turns away in disgust. Her words have gutted me.
“I swear, I don’t know what happened.”
As she zips up a suitcase, she shouts over her shoulder, “You let me think I had this campaign! You told me they agreed I was perfect for it. When all along, you were conspiring with Monica against me. I can’t think of anything more cruel.”
“That’s not—I swear, I didn’t conspire with anybody.”
“Oh no?” She zips up the second suitcase, and whirls around to glare at me.
I run a hand over my mouth. “Listen, I know it looks bad—”
Brooklyn laughs sarcastically. “No. I’m done ‘listening’ to you.
I should have seen this coming, actually.
You’re the one who told me the company was in dire straits.
That’s why you signed Monica, isn’t it? You knew Maxilene could save DRM’s ass from going under, and you figured she was your best bet at getting the campaign. Did you even pitch me at all?”
“Of course I did,” I insist. “I pushed harder for you than anyone else.”
“Oh, I’m sure. And now we can see the results of all your hard work.”
She pulls the bags to the floor and starts wheeling them toward me.
“It was a mistake to put my career in your hands, Luka. I’ve worked my ass off for years trying to get somewhere, and then you came along with all your big promises and somehow managed to convince me that you actually intended to keep them.
But you never keep your promises, do you?
You’ve been pulling the bait-and-switch with me since the first time we met. ”
I can’t even defend myself. Because what she’s saying has the cold ring of truth.
The first time I set eyes on Brooklyn, years ago, I promised her an exclusive modeling contract just to get her into bed.
And now, with our marriage contract, it looks like I’ve done the exact same thing all over again.
Stepping aside to let Brooklyn pass, I watch her make her way across the living room, toward the entryway of the apartment. Mr. Kibbles is following her, whining softly.
“I should have known better than to trust a Zoric,” Brooklyn hisses.
It feels like the wind just got knocked out of me. I blink, a little stunned that she just compared me to my father. Contemptible. Criminal. Sleazy. Exploitative. Manipulative and self-serving. Maybe she didn’t fully verbalize the comparison, but that’s how I take it.
My wife sweeps by me again, collecting Mr. Kibbles’ leash, toys, and food from the kitchen.
I wish I could convince her that I’m telling the truth.
I really did think Guy was going to give the campaign to her, and I really did do everything I could to sell her as the next face of Maxilene.
But why bother trying to earn her forgiveness and make her stay?
It’s obvious that she only cares about her career.
I was aware of that going into this marriage—hell, it’s written right into our marriage contract—but it still hurts.
And if she’s able to throw away our relationship so easily, I’d be a fool to try to save it. It’s clear she has no interest in working through this together if it’s so easy for her to believe the worst in me, to just walk out on our marriage like it doesn’t mean a thing.
“Where are you going?” I ask, striving for a neutral tone. I watch her clip the leash onto the dog’s collar and then whip out her cell to tap on the Uber app.
“Mateo just got a gig in LA for a few months. I’m going to stay with him since there’s nothing meaningful here for me anymore.”
I was right. Nothing I say to her will change her mind. She really believes that I booted her out of the way so that Monica could take the spotlight, and she believes I did it because the only thing I value is making money, even if it means destroying other people in the process.
So, fuck this. Fuck all of this. If that’s what she thinks of me, this entire relationship really has been a sham.
I’ve worked so hard to make this work, to make us work, even if my original motive was to repair my reputation.
But along the way, something changed. I changed.
But she doesn’t believe it. She thinks I’m just as bad as my father, a trafficker currently on trial for his crimes.
I hate that he makes me feel dirty by association, but I despise that my wife just made me feel stained by it in a way I can’t ever hope to wash away.
The worst part is, I really had faith that Brooklyn and I were going to make it.
“I can’t believe I actually cared about you when it’s obvious you don’t care about anybody but yourself,” she says, punching the button for the elevator that opens into the penthouse. “All you’ve ever done is lie to me.”
My defenses go up, way up. I feel myself shutting down, compartmentalizing, pushing away any concern that I had over her feelings.
I’ve never stuck my neck out for someone the way I have for my wife.
I’ve never cared enough to try to work on a relationship.
I’ve never let myself fall for someone. You know why?
Because I couldn’t stand the thought of going through exactly what we’re going through right now.
“All I do is lie, huh?” I snap. “Well, it’s the Zoric way. You should have known better.”
She glares at me. “Fuck you, Luka.”
The elevator dings and the doors slide open.
“C’mon, Kibby,” she says, tugging the dog’s leash. He’s still hovering at my feet.
But as she wheels her suitcases into the elevator car, the little traitor actually runs to her and sits on a wiggly bottom, gazing up at her with his ears back, anxious for attention. He’s leaving me. They’re both leaving me.
My mind goes blank, and I feel like I’m watching this all happen from a distance. A hole could open up and drop me a thousand feet right here, right now, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. I’m just…empty. Numb.
I know this feeling. It’s one that visited me often as a kid after my mom died, and my father was physically in the same house, but never truly present. When I was upset or lonely or scared, but I had nobody to tell me it would be fine. Part of me would just go someplace else.
“Goodbye,” Brooklyn says, her gaze cold as the elevator doors start to close.
Something in me breaks, and I kick the doors so they slide back open.
“It was never about you and me at all, was it?” I say accusingly.
Her brow crinkles, and her look of hard resolve wavers. “What?”
“All of it. Every moment we spent together. It was never more than a way to further your pathetic career.”
“Pathetic?” she shoots back. “Get the hell out of the way. I’m leaving.”
I keep one foot over the threshold so the elevator doors stay open. “You were a failure when I met you! A nobody. I could have chosen anyone to marry, but for some reason I still can’t figure out, I chose you. But you’re still nothing, Brooklyn.”
“Fuck you,” she says. With that, she kicks me in the shin and I finally pull my foot back. The doors start to close again, agonizingly slow.
I know how to low-blow her to her knees, and I’m going for it.
“You want to know why you didn’t get the job?” I tell her. “Your image was too clean. You’re just not sexy enough, Brooklyn. That’s why they chose Monica.”
I’m acting like a monster and I know it. I wish I could feel regret for what I’m saying, but I can’t. The only thing fueling me right now is the need to defend and protect myself from pain.
Brooklyn jabs the Door Open button and smirks as she hurls her final words at me:
“Well, whose fault is that? Maybe if you’d done a better job of putting me first and not your little fuck buddy Monica, I would have had a fighting chance. But it’s always been about her. You should have just married Monica Shore, so you could be part of the power couple you’ve always wished for.”
The doors slide together and just like that, she’s gone.
I don’t stop her, but her words dig down and rip me apart.
I’ve known Monica for years, and I’ve never wanted her.
From the moment I met Brooklyn, though, something was different, was real, and that feeling has never changed.
No matter what we’ve gone through, we’ve been connected.
Stronger together than we ever were apart.
I know I’m not wrong, that it isn’t all one-sided.
I’ll never tell that to Brooklyn, though, because she’ll just use it against me.
I kick the closed elevator doors, the contact vibrating through me as I storm over to the liquor cabinet to pour myself a drink. As I gulp it down on the balcony, I tell myself repeatedly that I don’t care, that I never wanted Brooklyn to begin with. She can go. I don’t need her.
But the more I try to talk myself into believing it, the more the truth hits me.
I really am a liar.