Page 113 of Perfect Satisfaction

“Forgettable.”

“You’re not paying attention,” Hastings complains.

“I am. Viewership is down a half percent from last month,” I repeat monotonously.

“You’re going soft, Ronan. What happened to the cutthroat son of a bitch I signed on to work with?”

Even his scathing tone doesn’t penetrate. Finally he says something of interest that disburses the fog filling my brain. He must be ogling over a photo because his admiration is frank. “Ursula Moore is one sexy broad.”

“Yes, she is.” But I’ve known that since she crawled on the floor of an airplane and seared me with her eyes—eyes that are now dark with pain every time they meet mine, which isn’t that often. Cursing myself for allowing Liza to drop by with her good news, I want to punch my fist through a wall.

“Honest to God, Ronan, you’re one lucky son of a bitch. First a supermodel and now you’re banging the Moore heiress?”

“What did you just say?” I spin in my chair.

“I can’t believe you’re with her now. She always appeared frigid even when she was with Basset.”

I pretend his mention of Joshua Basset propels me forward, but I know the truth. It’s any mention of Sula from his lips that infuriates me. Grabbing him by the tie, I shake him as I enunciate, “Ursula Moore is off limits. Her friends are off limits.”

“You’ve never set any boundaries—”

“I’m setting them now!” The adrenaline in my veins might have me snapping his neck, so I fling him away. Hastings stumbles back into his chair. “Let me be perfectly clear, the very air Ursula Moore breathes is considered off the record to every person who works for this publication.”

“That’s going to be difficult considering the company she keeps.” With that, Hastings tosses a folder of photos on my desk.

Reluctantly I pick it up and begin flipping through them. Most of them are from past Amaryllis Designs fashion shows.

Sula and Dani backstage, arms slung around one another.

Angie, Carys, and Sula grinning at one another.

Brendan Blake tucked behind her. I study that one closely. Then I lift the one where Brendan’s staring down at his wife and flip back to the one of him and my wife. There’s no comparison. “He looks at her like he’s about to play a prank on a kid sister.”

That’s when Hastings says, “I saw the same thing. I just wondered if you did.”

Another one of Ursula at Redemption the other night captured by Viego Martinez. She’s in the VIP section with Brendan, Beckett Miller, Paige Kensington, and Leanne Miles and her fiancé. My gut twists over the open devastation on Ursula’s face. Despite what she wrote on her blog, I recall every word she said when she arrived home.

All that pain because I can’t humble myself to admit the truth.

Carefully, I set it aside to study later.

Then Hastings tosses a final stack of photos on my desk.

They’re of Sula and Joshua Basset. The top photo is the one that fueled my anger so long ago. Before I blast him, he casually mentions, “I poked around. Basset apparently had a girlfriend who broke up with him after finding him in bed with Ursula Moore.”

My head snaps up. “You’re certain?” Shit. This is the last thing that needs to come out now. I curse Liza in my head using her given name instead of the American version she assumed in our high school years.Likitha, keep your damn mouth shut!

“Yes.”

Scooping up the photos, I flip through them. Sula adapted to her environment in each one—playful, serious, somber. “Will you ever let me in to know the real you?” I murmur.

“I thought that might be part of your problem,” Hastings says.

He flings one last photo on top of the file. With a final, “Figure out which of your women we protect because we can’t hold onto all of their secrets.”

I inhale so sharply all the air leaves the room, but fortunately, so does Hastings.

Dropping into my chair, I study the last photo that made it into our hands from Emily Freeman’s show. The devastation on Sula’s face as Liza Hina passes by confirms that my wife was telling the truth the night of the Fair Harvard event. Her reaction to finding the model in our home wasn’t faked.