I’m sitting in my living room, looking out into the city.

I don’t know how I got here. I must’ve driven home, but I have no recollection of it. I remember telling the driver to pick up Penny from school, but that’s it.

Now, Megan is flipping through the magazine. The blood has drained from her face, and her fingers are shaking. In fact, her whole fucking body is trembling.

Had I seen her in that state a few hours ago, I’d be jumping to her side, trying to soothe her. I’d be wishing I were making that sexy little body tremble for a completely different reason.

But right now, with the evidence of her betrayal right in front of me, I can't muster up much sympathy. As far as I can tell, she has brought this upon herself.

Sure, tabloids lie all the time. I’ve been a victim of that old tradition more than once.

But this is different. There are things only my dear wife would know, written on those glossy pages. As much as I want to believe the whole thing is a lie, I can't.

Eliza has looked into it, using her vast network of media contacts. She has discovered that Megan had interned at this particular tabloid and kept in touch with the editor—who, coincidentally, also happens to be the writer of the “EXCLUSIVE” piece.

To add insult to injury, Megan has even used her Hunter Corporation email address to contact this Michelle person.

I should really set up some kind of automated virtual surveillance to monitor what my staff discuss online. Any one of them could be talking to the media. I just never expected it to be her.

I don't know why Megan’s friend at the magazine would blow her cover before she could secure the money I’d promised her, but I guess I should fucking thank her for that.

She’s saving me so much time. If it weren't for this article, we would've kept up this “farce” for another year or two.

I was even thinking about turning this fake marriage into the real thing, considering how I felt about Megan and how well she got along with Penny.

Of course that's not going to happen now. Not unless she has a very good explanation for why she did it.

But I don't see how she could possibly have a valid reason to do it.

Megan is probably just another over-ambitious recent graduate, trying to differentiate herself from her peers, who have similar qualifications.

My heart bleeds for this generation, really, but this could hurt Penny. I don't tend to be kind or charitable to people who hurt her, however indirectly or unintentionally.

From the corner of my eye, I watch as Megan gradually slouches more and more as she makes her way through that painful article. I also notice when she's done. She raises her gaze to look at me, her mouth open but not saying anything.

“So? Is it true?” I ask, breaking the silence. I don't feel like saying anything, nor do I feel like listening to her bullshit explanation. All I need is for her to confirm one thing. “Were you undercover the whole time?”

“Well, not the whole time. Last night, I—”

“Did you or did you not start working as my assistant specifically to spy on me?” I cut her off impatiently. What's the use of listening to her drivel when it’s all made up anyway?

I need facts. And I need her to say yes or no. I realize she could still lie about that. I know it's fucking stupid, but I just need to hear it from her.

“Yes,” she says, telling me all I need to hear. Why does it still stab like a blade to the fucking heart, when I knew she was probably going to say yes?

“Okay,” I say flatly. I get up and walk toward the bar cart in the corner, where I store bottles of alcohol. I stand there, mulling over what to drink. What combination of these alcoholic beverages goes with betrayal? Maybe I should hire a fucking sommelier.

“I’m sorry, Ethan,” Megan says. How could she still sound like such an angel when she's done something this destructive? She continues, “It began as an undercover assignment, but somewhere along the way it turned into something more. I swear.”

I remain silent. I can't even look at her right now. There's nothing I hate more than backstabbers. I prefer someone who openly hates me, like those people who come to my office just to scream at me, rather than someone who pretends to be on my side.

“I know it sounds like a shameless lie right now, but everything that has happened between the two of us is real.” Megan’s voice gets more frantic. She's beginning to realize that her source of both money and story is slipping away, and she's panicking. She admits, “Yes, I used to send Michelle progress reports, but I stopped that last night. I cut her off. That's why she's lashing out by writing this article. It's because she knows she won't get anything from me anymore.”

“Save your breath,” I say. Instead of pouring something into a glass, I grab a random bottle.

“Ethan, I’ve never faked anything with you. The person you've been talking to, the person you liked up until this morning, I’m still that person. I’ve been nothing but real with you.”

“How am I supposed to believe you, when you’ve been doing something dishonest since the first time we met?”

“Ethan, please.” Megan’s voice starts to shake as she approaches—I can hear her footsteps getting closer. “Please listen to me. I'm so sorry about how we began. But you have to admit that what we have is real. I know you feel it, too.”

“I don't know what's real anymore.” I chuckle wryly. “Maybe you weren't even a real virgin. Maybe you just said that to gain my trust. I heard virginity restoration surgery is a thing now.”

Megan stops in her tracks. Her eyes grow red and start to water. God, she's good. So fucking good. Maybe she's an actress, too, in another one of her secret lives.

I unscrew the cap of a bottle of whiskey and raise the bottle as I stare her down. “Congrats, you fooled me real good.”

I take a swig of the whiskey straight from the bottle, and make my way toward my bedroom. This time, though, nobody's invited, especially not the fake virgin.

I should've known not to trust anybody who’d agree to a fake marriage. I should've kept her at arm’s length, instead of holding her tight against my chest.

I close my bedroom door and lock it. This is what I should've been doing the whole time. She has to live in my apartment as my fake wife, but she has no business burrowing herself any deeper into my personal life.

I put the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and sit on the bed, leaning against the headboard.

Damn it, the whole fucking bed smells like her. How am I supposed to drown my sorrows when I’m surrounded by her, even in my own home?

If it weren't for Penny, I would've left. Maybe I’d spend the night at some hotel.

On second thought, though, that's probably not a good idea. Megan might decide to  invite a whole crew of photographers and writers into the apartment while I’m gone.

One thing’s for sure, I have the worst luck when it comes to marriage. I sure can pick them.

I swear, for as long as I live, I will never get married again. There’s no wedding in my future—whether it’s real or fake.