Exposed

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not? It makes sense.”

  “Don’t. Say. That.” He looks furious and distraught and desperate, his hands curling into fists at his side and his eyes pleading with me to believe him. “Don’t ever say that. You know I love you. You know I would do anything for you—”

  “That’s not true and you know it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I asked you to give this vendetta up. I asked you to let it go, to let time and distance continue to heal me. To heal us. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really asked of you—that and not to lie to me—and you couldn’t do either one. You won’t do either one.”

  I should stop there, I know I should, but there’s a little voice inside of me that just won’t let me. A little voice that keeps pushing and pushing and pushing, telling me to keep going until I’ve said everything I have to say. Until I’ve laid myself—laid our relationship—bare. Until we’re totally exposed with nothing else to hide behind. “You’re lost in the past. Lost in what happened to me, lost in mistakes you made, lost in shit that can’t be changed no matter how much you wish it could. You think you’re the only one who wishes the past was different? You think you’re the only one who hates the way things are all twisted up between us?

  “Because you’re not. I think about it, too. I think all the time about how the fuck I could fall in love with a man who, however inadvertently, helped hurt me the way you did. But the difference between you and me is I let it go. I have to, and not just for my own sanity. I let it go because you matter more to me than all of that. You matter more than the rape. More than my family’s betrayal. More than anything. And so I let it go. I let it all go—the pain, the rage, the memories, the fear. I let it all go so that I can be with you and we can try to build a life together. But you won’t do the same thing. How can you blame me for thinking that I’m not nearly as important to you as you are to me?”

  I’m shaking by the time I’ve said my piece, and this time, when I reach for his shirt, Ethan doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t do anything but stand there staring at me, all white face and tortured eyes. It’s not the reaction I was hoping for, but then, it never is with him. Not when it comes to this.

  I can see his thoughts moving behind his eyes, and I wait for him to say something. Anything. But he doesn’t. He just continues to stand there until I can’t take it anymore.

  Not sure what else to do, I walk over to my suitcase, pull out a change of clothes. Then I head to the bathroom for a shower. For the second time today, I close the bathroom door firmly between us. This time I don’t lock it, but then I don’t have to. Ethan never once tries to open it.

  Chapter 11

  Fuck.

  Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!

  I stare at the closed bathroom door—a door that suddenly seems to represent so much more than just a privacy measure—and try to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to say to Chloe. What the fuck I’m supposed to say to my wife after she looked at me like I’d broken her heart. Again.

  Fuuuuuuuck.

  My phone beeps, signaling a text coming in. I glance at it more out of habit than any desire to know what it says, and grimace at what I find. A list of requests, forwarded by Stu, for interviews with Chloe and me from some of the biggest gossip and news sources in the business. As well as a reporter from the LA Times asking for a confirmation or denial of a source that claims Chloe and my family entered into an NDA six years ago.

  With a growl of frustration, I hit Stu’s icon and wait impatiently for him to pick up the phone. It takes only two rings.

  “Bury it,” I order before he can say anything but a cautious greeting. “I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care what you have to do, bury it. Now.”

  “I already have, Ethan,” he assures me. “But I had to offer them an exclusive interview with you and Chloe to get it done.”

  I think of my wife, with her devastated face and the nightmares she just can’t shake. “She’s not ready for that, Stu. She needs media training. She needs—”

  “I know that. But I don’t think we’ve got a choice. For whatever reason, the LA Times has really dug their teeth into this one. If we don’t give them something big, they’re going to run with it.”

  “They’re going to run with it? Jesus Christ, Stu, what the hell do I pay you for, then?”

  “To talk them out of publishing stories like this. Which I’m doing.” He pauses, lets his words sink in. “Maybe if you told me what was in the NDA, I could find some more wiggle room—”

  “No. That’s not an option.”

  A long, pregnant pause. Then, “Yeah, I figured. So without knowing what the LA Times is going to dig up, I have to tell you that I really believe doing the interview is the best course of action. You and Chloe meet one of their top reporters for drinks or dinner, you chat for about an hour, and then it’s over. They get the juiciest story to hit the West Coast social scene in years and Chloe gets to keep her privacy. It’s a win-win situation, Ethan.”

  He’s right. I know he’s right. This is the best thing to do—up to a point. And still I hesitate, because I don’t want to expose Chloe to all that yet. Because I don’t want her to have to dress up and play nice and give the vultures what they want just to protect herself. Just to keep them from violating her in some other way. My wife has already been violated in too many ways by too many people. I don’t want her to have to go through anything like that ever again. And doing this interview, placating the LA Times—it’s a stopgap measure, not a solution. It’s one more thing I’m not okay with.

  Normally, I’d talk it over with Chloe. See how she feels, what she wants to do. After all, this is her life and her privacy we’re talking about. But considering that closed bathroom door, I don’t think that’s going to be happening right now. Especially not when I can’t bring myself to open the door.

  The thought makes me furious. The last thing I ever wanted was barriers between Chloe and me and yet here we are, on two different sides of a divide with no way to cross over the gaping chasm between us. It’s not that I don’t see her point of view, it’s not that I don’t understand why she thinks we need to leave the past in the past. If I were her, I’d be terrified of being hurt again, too.

  But ignoring the past, hiding from it, won’t work for so many reasons.

  Her nightmares.

  My rage.

  The press.

  Brandon and his damn political aspirations.

  Her brother.

  And a million other things that will just keep bringing the past between us until we deal with it once and for all.

  For a moment, one weak, terrible, vile moment, I think of telling Stu to back off. Think about letting the LA Times run whatever the fuck article they want to. Sure, if I do that, it will be a free-for-all for a few weeks, with the press out for blood from every side. But I can protect Chloe from all that to a certain extent. I can take her away to my island near Bali, keep her away from anything and anyone who might upset her until the story dies down.

  And if the past comes out that way, by a third party with no stake in the fight at all, it won’t be my fault. And if it’s not my fault, there won’t be anything for us to argue about. The press will dig until they find out all of Brandon’s secrets and then his career will be over. It’s not the vengeance I want, but if it keeps him out of office and stops him being able to abuse other women, then it’s something I can live with.

  Except I don’t have it in me to throw Chloe to the wolves—and I’m ashamed that I thought about it, even for a second. Yes, I can protect her. Yes, she’s said more than once that she’s ready to deal with whatever happens, with whatever the press finds on her, but she doesn’t know what she’s saying. Not really. Until she’s faced with that kind of scrutiny, day in and day out, until her whole life is fodder for a different three-minute news segment every night, she can’t possibly know what she can or can’t take.

  When my father “th
e national hero” died, I was the news story of the season. I couldn’t go to school or to the park or even to a friend’s house without getting followed. Without getting hassled by photographers and reporters and regular people who wanted a picture of his son. Who wanted to know what it was like to be the son of a hero. Who wanted to know what it was like to grow up in the shadow of a man like him.

  And then my mother remarried, which only fueled the fire. Followed by me making all this money and now, here I am, my photo a regular addition to the weekly tabloids. My wife’s painful past fodder for anyone with an internet connection.

  Not if I can help it. And I can.

  “Text me the name and number of the editor for the LA Times,” I growl at Stu, interrupting him in the middle of a spiel I can’t even pretend that I was listening to.

  “His number…” Stu trails off uncertainly. Then, “Oh, no, Ethan. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let me handle this—”

  “You had your chance. Now it’s my turn.” I hang up before he has the opportunity to argue any more.

  Less than a minute later, the requested text comes in. I should probably take a few minutes to figure out what I’m going to say, but the truth is I’m riding high on anger and adrenaline and I don’t have the patience to wait. Not when my wife is furious with me—and not when I’m furious with myself and the whole fucking world.

  Jake Dantana’s assistant answers on the second ring. I identify myself and demand to speak to him—something that only takes about five seconds to come to fruition. I didn’t even know someone could push buttons that fast.

  “Ethan, this is Jake. How are you?”

  “I’ve been better, Jake.” I’m in no mood for social niceties. “The head of my publicity team tells me you’ve got a reporter sniffing around my wife’s past. It stops now.”

  There’s a few seconds of silence as he absorbs the fact that I’m not asking and I’m not trading. I’ll do that with other things, have done it innumerable times in the last eight years, but not with this. I don’t play fast and loose with Chloe’s well-being. And I never will.

  “While it’s true we’re in the preliminary stages of a story that has turned up some anomalies in Mrs. Frost’s past—”

  “Kill it. Now.”

  I know I’m coming on too heavy, know that it’s probably the wrong approach if I want to do anything but pique his curiosity, but I don’t actually give a shit. He won’t be doing anything with that curiosity—not if I have anything to say about it. And I do.

  My resolve communicates itself to him and his voice is a little less cagey and a lot more uncertain when he says, “She’s big news, Ethan. You both are. If we don’t run this story, you need to give us something to run in its place. I’m listening.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?” he splutters.

  “Exactly what I said. I am not going to give you an interview with her or us or any other kind of story about her that you want and you’re still going to kill the story.”

  “That’s not how this works.”

  “Now that’s where you’re wrong, Jake. This is exactly how it works when it comes to my wife. Stu provided all of you with a basic, approved biography about my wife, along with a list of places it is acceptable to photograph her. You will use that bio and you will abide by that list. Everything else is off-limits.”

  “You don’t actually think I’m going to agree to that, do you? In case you’ve forgotten, this is America. We’ve got freedom of the press. And there’s no way I’m going to shoot myself in the foot just because you say so—”

  “Oh, yes, that’s exactly what you’re going to do. Because if you don’t, you’re going to end up bleeding out from a hell of a lot more than a foot wound. The LA Times won’t get shit from Frost Industries. No comments on any newsworthy things we might do, no interviews, no press passes to any event you might want to cover, nothing. And in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve got a lot of friends in a lot of different places, Jake. I’ll have you shut out completely.”

  “You wouldn’t do that. You’d end up crippling yourself as badly as—”

  “You have no idea what I’ll do to keep my wife safe. Keep pushing me and you’ll find out.”

  I hang up while he’s still wheezing in shock, then text It’s handled to Stu. I’m about to text him further instructions about the moratorium I want put on stories about Chloe—and how to handle it when the press pushes back—when I hear the bathroom door crack open behind me.

  I whirl around to see Chloe standing there in a purple sundress, looking pale and uncertain and so beautiful that it pretty much breaks my heart. I start to apologize, but she cuts me off with a shake of her head.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re sorry when we both know you’re anything but.” She nods at the phone in my hand. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. I would have given them an interview in exchange for them ignoring my past.”

  “I know you would have. And in the end, we probably will. But I needed the point made that you’re off-limits—and that anyone who doesn’t take that seriously does so at their own peril.”

  The smile she gives me is a little sad, but her shoulders relax enough that I can take my first real breath since she slammed the door between us when she was getting sick. Then she walks into my arms, buries her face in the crook of my neck and I relax, too. Because no matter how mad she still is at me, she’s here, in my arms. Pressing kisses to the bare skin of my shoulders and chest.

  “You don’t have to protect me,” she tells me after a minute.

  “That’s another thing we’re just going to have to disagree on, then.”

  She pulls back and I can tell from her narrowed eyes that that was the wrong thing to say. And any other time, on any other subject, I’d probably be tripping over myself to backtrack. But not now, not on this. I’m in the middle of making sure every newspaper in the country—in the world—knows that I’ll annihilate them if they cross me on this. It’s time for Chloe to get on board, too.

  “I can take care of myself, you know.”

  “I do know. You’ve done an amazing job of doing just that these last few years.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because you’re in a different playground now, one where you don’t yet know the rules. Until you do, I’ll protect you.”

  She tilts her head to the side, her beautiful green eyes searching mine as she tries to figure out just where in the sand I’ve drawn the line. The fact that it’s in a very different place than where she wants it to be doesn’t keep me from meeting her eyes. Or from opening myself up to her. It only seems fair, after all, when I’m demanding so much—demanding everything—from her.

  “And once I do learn the rules?” she asks.

  “Then I’ll still protect you. Because you’re my wife and I love you and your safety and well-being mean more to me than anything else in this world.”

  She sighs, then rolls her eyes in disgust. “How am I supposed to stay mad at you when you say shit like that?”

  “You’re not. That’s the whole point.”

  Sensing that the crisis is over—or that I’ve at least managed to avert it for now—I pull her into my arms and kiss her like I’ve been dying to from the moment I woke up this morning. The fact that she lets me convinces me that we’re going to make it just fine through our first fight as a married couple.

  “I don’t want you to go meet that man today,” she says after finally pulling her lips from mine.

  “I have to.”

  “No, you really don’t.”

  I gather her hands in mine, all the while pressing soft kisses to her jaw. “Yes, I really do. Valducci owns Brandon. He holds his gambling debts, he contributes to his campaign, he makes his messes go away. If I cut that relationship off at the knees, it weakens Brandon. Makes him more vulnerable for when I—” I break off, searching for the words to explain what I want to do to the miserable excuse for a human being that is my little brot
her.

  “Go in for the kill?” Chloe suggests, voice droll and eyebrow raised.

  I know she’s being sarcastic, trying to point out the error in my thinking, but the truth is, she isn’t wrong. I am planning on going in for the kill with Brandon, so thoroughly and so bloodily that he’ll never make the same mistake again.

  “For when I shut him down.” I don’t lie to her, but I temper the truth a little. For both of our sakes.

  Except Chloe isn’t buying it. Again, not a surprise. My wife is a brilliant one. And if she wasn’t so close to this situation, if this was anything else that was going on, I’d trust her implicitly. But her vision is skewed by the past, by the years of pain and abuse and terror that followed my brother’s attack on her. Which means I have to be the clearheaded one here. I have to be the one who does what’s necessary to ensure that Brandon never hurts another woman again.

  “Chloe, baby, I understand what you’re saying. I really do. And I would give you anything you ask of me. Anything you want. Except for this. I’m going to meet Valducci. I’m going to cut off the steady stream of money he’s funneling into Brandon’s campaign. And then I’m going to go after my brother. And there’s nothing you or anyone else is going to be able to say or do to change my mind.”

  Chapter 12

  There isn’t much to be said after that—on either of our parts. So we don’t talk. Instead, I order up breakfast from room service and we sit around very pointedly not talking about the fact that we disagree on something so fundamentally important to both of us.

  It’s the most awkward meal we’ve ever had together.

  Afterward, I text Tori, ask her to come hang with Chloe while I go out. It’s not that I’m worried about Chloe precisely (though I am). It’s that I don’t want to leave her alone here, staring at the walls as she worries and waits for me to get back. In that week we were apart, I spent a lot of time doing just that and it wasn’t healthy for anyone.