9. Brooklyn
brOOKLYN
Last night was like a dream.
Waking up today, I can’t really believe the show went as perfectly as I remember—so the first thing I do is grab my phone, bypassing the thirty-seven congratulatory text messages waiting for me (most of which are likely from Mateo), and scroll through my social media apps, checking to see what people have been posting about the Elia Mertins show.
The love is rolling in. And it’s not all just “EM’s joyful aesthetic” or “the irreverent crossroads of high and low culture” or even “her cheeky reinterpretation of the wrap dress.” People are actually commenting on the models Elia handpicked for the collection as fashion muses, and how some of us looked like we were having as much fun as the audience was.
And the picture getting the most likes, shares, and reposts?
It’s a shot of me and Elia at the end of the show, gold confetti raining down around us, me in the show’s signature piece—the candy wrapper-printed wrap dress that everyone can’t stop talking about—and Elia in her signature horn-rim glasses and a white suit hand painted all over with graffiti.
My head is tilted back in a throaty laugh, Elia’s brilliant smile flashing against her dark skin, and her arm is tucked around my waist. We look like we’re having a total blast.
I let out a happy squeal and stretch luxuriously in my bed, taking a few moments to close my eyes and just bask in the warm glow of the late morning sun coming in through the windows.
It hasn’t escaped me that Luka made this all possible.
He booked the show for me, soothed my anxiety, gave me a boost beforehand, and then let me soak up all the limelight afterward.
In fact, I was even approached backstage by two other up-and-coming designers, asking who repped me.
A very good sign that more work is coming my way soon.
My career is finally back on track. And best of all? My husband is taking care of me like he never has before, putting in the kind of effort I’ve been wishing for since we agreed to enter into this partnership together.
I smile as his image pops into my mind. We’d talked excitedly about the show on the way home.
He’d held the door for me. Carried my bag.
Tasked himself with taking Mr. Kibbles out for a quick walk.
Luka was a perfect gentleman. For the past few days I’ve been catching little hints that he might be trying to work on our marriage, but after last night?
I’m convinced that I’m right. And I’m ready to save this relationship, too. Ready to start trying again.
Hell, I almost went to bed with him after we got home, and even waited for him to get back from walking the dog just in case he invited me into his room…but when he didn’t initiate anything beyond a soft kiss good night, I chickened out.
This morning, though, I’m feeling braver. Stronger. Ready to go after what I want.
I stay in bed a few minutes longer, thinking up ways to surprise him today.
A nice lunch at his favorite Italian restaurant? Maybe. A hike at the Morton Arboretum? Good.
A picnic in Lakeview? Better.
We need to talk, and the sunshine, a breeze, and a cooler full of canned champagne—something I only recently learned about, thanks to Mateo’s bad influence—can only help.
Excited by the thought of lounging on a blanket with my husband and our dog and a basket full of artisanal cheeses and a crusty loaf of French bread, I check the time on my phone.
Realizing that it’s almost eleven, I dash for the shower.
I wash up quickly, leaving a deep conditioner in my hair while I take my time shaving until I’m silky smooth.
Then I give my hair a quick blow dry and tie it into two pigtails.
I make a curl at the end of each with my curling iron and then step back to admire my work in the mirror. Fun. Flirty. Innocent.
Ha. Luka will especially love that last one.
Going for a low-key, natural look, I apply a bb cream with SPF, a few swipes of mascara, and tinted lip balm, aiming to keep the fresh, innocent look going. Cut-off denim shorts and a lightweight plaid button-down knotted at the waist finish off the look.
I’m not even going to pack dessert. I am dessert. He’s going to eat me up.
Last night he’d thought I was the tastiest thing ever. I cannot wait for round two.
I walk barefoot from my room and scan the penthouse for Luka, but he doesn’t seem to be around.
Mr. Kibbles is curled up on his dog bed and barely pays me any mind as I walk into the kitchen.
I take a quick peek in the fridge to see what’s on hand, then go to the pantry to grab the wicker basket.
I begin to slice the cheeses, arranging them artfully in a deep Tupperware container.
Thin-sliced cold cuts from the deli. Cornichons and almonds and red pepper hummus.
Crisp red grapes. Fig jam. The champagne.
We can pick up fresh bread on the way there.
It’s hard not to fall into a daydream about snuggling up next to Luka on the blanket after we eat, planting kisses behind his ear and down his neck just to drive him crazy, maybe climbing on top of him if we’re in a secluded spot.
I imagine dappled light falling across his chest as I tug his shirt up and over his head, then trailing my tongue down the hard ridges of his abs…
A soft woof from Mr. Kibbles interrupts my fantasy. He’s sitting near my feet like a good boy, his brows furrowed in concern at the way I’m packing up all the salami and cold chicken and cheeses without offering him a piece of anything.
“Oh, you,” I scold him. But how can I say no to those big eyes gazing up at me expectantly, the way his cute little ears are folded back, the tentative wag of his tail?
Snack granted, picnic basket locked and loaded, there’s still no sign of Luka. I wonder if he’s sleeping in this late. Not that I blame him. He’s been working so hard, plus the runway event didn’t wrap up until well after midnight. Guess I’ll just have to go entice him out of bed.
Listening outside his door, I hear a soft rustling. Then the sound of a zipper, and a metallic rattle. I knock, wait a beat, then open the door when he says, “Yes?”
I step into the room, and he pauses to look at me, eyeing my outfit with a grin.
“What’s up? You got plans to go apple picking today?”
Behind him, I see a suitcase open on the bed. It’s half full of neatly folded clothes.
As he continues packing, my smile freezes on my face. What the hell is going on?
“I was going to invite you on a picnic,” I tell him. “I thought it’d be nice to relax by the water. Maybe talk a little.”
He shoots me an apologetic look, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “Let’s raincheck. I have a flight to catch that leaves in two hours. I’m running behind.”
I nod. “Okay. Sure. Where are you going?” This is definitely the first I’ve heard of it.
“Vegas.”
Ducking into the en suite, he grabs his monogrammed toiletry bag and tosses it into the suitcase.
“Vegas?” I repeat. “Is this a work thing, or…”
“Yeah.” He gives me the barest of looks. “Monica has a three-day shoot. It’s the Venetian, Caesar’s Palace, a drive-through wedding chapel, and some undisclosed location in the desert. It’s her first major campaign as a DRM model, so she could use the support.”
Monica? Her name is like a punch to the gut. I suddenly feel like I’m standing outside of my body. As if this can’t be real. And then something else hits me.
“Wait, is this the Maxilene shoot?” I ask.
“Yes, Brooklyn,” Luka says impatiently, sitting down to put his shoes on.
As I watch him, it takes everything I have to keep from flipping the fuck out. There’s so much that hurts about this whole situation—least of all the fact that this is the campaign I so desperately wanted.
Honestly, right now I’m a lot more upset about Luka taking part at all.
Why does he have to go to the Maxilene shoot with Monica?
He’s not solely responsible for supervising every step of her career.
In fact, she’s such a seasoned model that I find it hard to believe she needs any hand-holding at all.
Unless this is just a cover story. It’s not called Sin City for nothing.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid, but something’s not sitting right.
Luka doesn’t make a habit of following other DRM models to their gigs.
Why should he, when he’s literally a phone call away if there’s a problem?
Of course he goes to my shoots, but that started out as an excuse to police my body and maintain control over my squeaky clean image—and lately, I’d assumed that his presence had more to do with wanting to spend time near me, because he missed me.
Was I totally wrong? Is he with Monica? Why else would he be at her beck and call like this, jumping on a plane across the country last minute because she crooked her finger at him?
Anger seeps through the disbelief and makes my hairline tingle.
My eyes narrow. “You really have to supervise the shoot? Isn’t that a little unusual?”
He shrugs. “I’ve gone to nearly every one of your shoots, Brooklyn.”
His voice isn’t hard, but it’s dismissive enough that I can tell he doesn’t enjoy all the questions I’m throwing at him.
This only raises the red flags higher. I came in here to ask him on a picnic date so we could bond a little more as a couple.
Instead, he’s running off to a drive-through wedding chapel with my arch nemesis and fiercest competition.
I feel sick at the idea of her being alone with my husband for the next three days. What happens in Vegas stays there, right? Luka and Monica could get into a whole lot of “what happens.” Even if he isn’t already sleeping with her, that doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to.
My fists are clenched at my sides, but I relax my hands and lift my chin.
Part of me wants to throw myself at Luka, beg him not to go, or just throw his open suitcase over the balcony and see how fast he gets to the airport then.
But I won’t do any of those things. No way am I going to let him see how this is ripping me apart.
“What do you have left to pack?” I ask casually, pushing away from the wall.
“Just need to grab my suit jacket and a few ties.”
“Great.” I keep my voice cheery and upbeat. “I’ll get them.”
He looks fully at me then. I flounce a pigtail as I walk into the closet, zip his jacket into a garment bag, and then hand it over to him with a nonchalant grin.
“Well, Mr. Kibbles and I have a picnic to go to. Have a great time in Vegas!”
With that I spin on my heel, my pigtails nearly whipping me in the face as I march right out the door. It takes all my willpower not to crumble as I head down the hall.
“Brooklyn.”
I don’t pause at the sound of my name, and I don’t look back. I’ll be damned if I’m going to hang on any word from him.
Snapping the leash on the dog, I hook the picnic basket over my arm, grab my purse, and head out the door.
If Luka’s decided he’s over our marriage and onto his next conquest, I sure as hell won’t be sitting around here pining for him.