17
Ben
“What do you think of this one?” I asked Bray, holding up an elaborately cut five-carat-diamond ring.
He shifted his weight, looking completely out of place at Tiffany in his worn jeans and scuffed-up Chucks. But I needed him here. I needed his opinion. “Ah . . . honestly? That’s too much. Emmy’s a simple girl, right?”
“Yeah.” He was right. This was too much. I wanted the best for her. But she’d want something a little more understated. I wanted something significant on her finger. Something that said, She’s fucking taken, but I needed to respect who she was. I continued scanning the rows of rings.
“What about this?” I held up a much simpler two-carat solitaire for him to inspect.
“Yeah. Actually, that’s perfect.”
Exactly what I was thinking. This would suit Emmy to a T. It was simple, classic, timeless. It’d look beautiful on her finger. “I’ll take it,” I told the salesclerk.
I dropped the ring into his waiting palm, feeling proud, excited, and optimistic. The thought of kneeling on one knee and sliding this ring onto Emmy’s finger while gazing into her pretty blue eyes made me feel like a damn emotional fool. This is what people wrote love songs about. Entire novels. Shit. I needed to pull it together. I was getting fucking misty-eyed inside of Tiffany. What a fucking tool.
I couldn’t wait to take Emmy out this weekend to celebrate, and I hoped when I pulled out the ring, she’d be surprised—in a good way. I’d only hinted at my openness to marriage, wanting to keep things a surprise.
“Wait. . . .” The salesclerk grinned up at me. “You’re the guy from the video. Fuck me . . . London Burke . . . you’re a lucky man. This ring for her?” He smiled at me, waiting for my answer.
It wasn’t uncommon to be recognized, but I had no clue what he was talking about. And London? I hadn’t dated London in years. “What video?”
He laughed and winked at me. “The video everyone’s talking about. I saw it online this morning. That shit was hot.”
Oh shit.
Braydon and I exchanged a look of horror.
Realization flooded me and I suddenly felt sick. The blurry sex tape we’d recorded while drunk two years ago. No way. It couldn’t be. I’d destroyed my copy and London had sworn she deleted hers, too.
I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. Awareness burned in the back of my brain . . . something told me Fiona was behind the leak of the tape. I racked my brain, fighting to remember back to two years ago. I’d confided in her once I sobered up and realized that I’d fucking recorded a sex tape. I knew that if it got out, I’d need her help. At the time, in the stark light of morning, I’d regretted what London and I had done. Fiona had assured me that it’d never be discovered. We’d been in Singapore when we deleted the copy on my laptop. Only now I wondered if she could have saved a copy for herself somewhere. I would have never suspected her at the time. But now knowing how she truly felt about me, and knowing that we always had adjoining rooms back then, she had the opportunity and means and potentially the motivation, too. The thought sickened me.
I dashed from the store, pulling my phone from my pocket. I dialed Emmy’s number.
No answer.
I tried her again.
Nothing.
And again.
Fuck.
I paced the sidewalk, traffic zooming past as I silently prayed she’d pick up, give me the chance to explain. I needed to do some major damage control before she found out about the video.
On the eighth ring, Ellie answered. “Yes?”
I stopped suddenly. “Is she there?”
“She is.”
“Can I speak to her?” My heart was thumping like a goddamn racehorse.
“Ben, she knows. She saw the video.”
Fuck. “I’m so sorry. Let me explain. Let me apologize.”
“She can’t talk right now.”
“Please. Just put her on the phone.”
“You’ve gone too far this time. Pushed her too much. She’s cracked.”
“Cracked?”
“Yeah. She’s in bed crying herself to sleep. It’s done. Just leave her be.”
“I can’t,” I admitted. “She’s my everything. She owns me. That video is from years ago, and London and I made it as a stupid joke. We swore we’d deleted it. I think Fiona released it as a last act of revenge. Please . . . we can’t let her win.” My voice cracked.
“You’ve fucked up too many times. She can’t forgive this. Would you really expect her to if the tables were turned?” Ellie hung up and I pressed a hand against the brick wall to steady myself. In the course of three minutes flat, my world had just crumbled.
Fuck that. I hailed the nearest cab, leaving Braydon shouting something from the jewelry shop behind me.
“Drive like the fucking wind and I’ll tip you handsomely,” I told the driver, then gave him Emmy’s address in Queens.
When I reached her building I took the stairs two and a time, jogging up to her unit while my heart pounded erratically. Dread filled me. I just needed her to see me, to look into my eyes and let me explain.
Forcing a deep breath of air into my lungs, I knocked at the door and waited, stuffing my hands into my pockets.
Nothing happened for several long seconds, and I knew either Emmy or Ellie was peering through the peephole, deciding on whether or not to open the door.
Moments ticked past and I thought I heard whispering coming from inside.
I knocked again, more urgently this time. “Emmy, please. I know you’re in there. Let me explain.” My voice sounded steady but my stomach curled into a tight knot.
Silence.
I pounded against the door, desperation overtaking me. “Baby.”
I beat my fists against the door for what seemed like forever until my knuckles were red and raw.
“Go away, Ben. It’s over,” Ellie called tersely through the door.
Tears filled my vision. It couldn’t end like this. I slunk to the floor and sat there for hours, praying that the door would open, if not to see me, at least because one of them needed to go out for something. I was certain once Emmy saw me, met my eyes, I could make her understand.
But that chance never came.
• • •
In the days that followed, my phone rang and rang, but it was never Emmy.
At Fiona’s sixth call for the day, I finally picked up. “Yeah?”
“Love . . .” Her endearment for me hung in the air, feeling empty. “I saw the news and I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay?”
“I’m fucking fabulous,” I bit out. Was she seriously asking me that? My sex tape had been leaked, likely by her, and my girlfriend had left me. London and I had spoken once when the news story broke and she’d apologized profusely. She’d said she had no clue how the video got out. I believed her. She wouldn’t have intentionally leaked it—she was just as mortified as I was. Her publicist had released the obligatory statement requesting the public to respect her privacy during this difficult time.
“You need me to fix this for you. Emmy can’t handle this level of PR, love. Let me handle this.”
Her motivation for releasing the video became clear. It was her last-ditch effort to bring me back to her. If she thought I’d need her to fix this, she was wrong. She also assumed Emmy was still working for me. Emmy wasn’t even speaking to me, but I was still paying her. I refused to stop that. Emmy would never suffer because of my fuck-ups. I called her nonstop, left voicemails until her mailbox was full, and yet still nothing. Utter silence on her end.
“Fiona . . .” I warned. I didn’t need her help.
“Let me take care of it. I’ll make it go away.”
I didn’t care about it going away. I just wanted Emmy back. The sex tape didn’t bother me, The world knowing that I liked to fuck didn’t matter. Losing my girl, my reason for breathing, did. Big fucking time. “I don’t need your help. And in fact, give me one reason why I should believe you didn’t leak this tape yourself.”
“Darling . . .” She stumbled only slightly. “I would never hurt you. You have to believe that.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore. All I know is London didn’t release it, and I sure as fuck didn’t.”
A tense silence hung between us while I tried to get my breathing under control.
“Can I ask you something?” her voice was tiny, unsure, very unlike Fiona. “I run a multimillion-dollar business. We’d be a power couple. Unstoppable. What could you possibly want with her? What does she have to offer you?”
“Fiona, I’m not discussing this with you. I’m with Emmy. She’s all I want. Let’s not drudge this up again.” I was pretty certain it wouldn’t do Fiona any good to hear me pledge my love for Emmy.
“Don’t you want a woman capable of being your equal?”
“She isn’t my equal. She’s better than I ever hope to be.”
Her family, her positive outlook on life, her simple beauty. I wanted whatever she was willing to give me. I’d take it. Gladly. In an industry filled with vanity and looks-are-everything, Emmy never let the fame go to my head. She’d always treated me like a regular guy. Like a man who was meant to be cherished for the actual person I was inside and not some idol to be worshipped and gazed at from afar. It was the only real thing in my life. This sex-tape scandal only proved what I already knew. I wasn’t near good enough for her.
“Ben?” she asked, filling the silence.
I said nothing. I’d said everything I had to say.
“I’ve got to go, Fiona. Good-bye.” The tone to my voice was final and I knew she knew it, too.
The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced Fiona was behind the video’s release. Though I knew I’d never be able to prove it. A woman scorned would go to great lengths to exact her revenge. I’d left her agency, taking the income she made from my bookings, and of course I’d called off our affair. Though to be fair, I’d done that before I even met Emmy. I think in Fiona’s mind, though, the two events were related. She blamed Emmy for stealing me away. The truth was, I’d just had enough of her possessiveness over me. And I’d started to feel shady, sleeping with my boss and all.
I was done with her. The drama, the lies . . . all of it. She’d been good to me and my mother for a long time, but those days were done. It was time to move on. I just wished I knew how the fuck to do that.