King of Envy: Chapter 5

“Wait. You’re sharing a bedwith Vuk Markovic?” Sloane’s disbelief crackled over the line. “How did that happen?”

“I told you. I forgot to change the reservation and every decent hotel in the area is booked out for the Riley K. concert.” I glanced at the bathroom door. The water was still running. Vuk had been in there for forty minutes, and I was trying really hard not to imagine what he might be doing. “And technically, we haven’t shared the bed yet. It’s just…an inevitability for when we do sleep.”

“He really broke the cot just by sitting on it?”

“Yep.” For a five-star hotel, the Winchester wasn’t making the best impression.

I could practically hear her head shake in response.

Sloane Kensington had been my publicist for the past year and a half. She’d become a friend as well, so much so that I’d asked her to be one of my bridesmaids. I’d been pleasantly surprised when she agreed.

The sad truth was, I didn’t have many friends in the city. I had plenty of fashion acquaintances. We worked the same shows, attended the same parties, and ran in the same circles, but I wouldn’t consider them true friends. They weren’t people I’d turn to when I was having a bad day, nor were they people I wanted to celebrate my wins with.

Thankfully, I had Sloane, who understood that world without being entrenched in it.

“As long as your hotel situation doesn’t end up in the press, we’re fine,” she said. “The last thing we need is a scandal before Fashion Week.”

“Trust me. I have no intention of causing any sort of scandal.”

That being said, intentions and reality didn’t always align.

What can you imagine me doing?

The memory of Vuk’s question sent a frustrating tingle down my spine. The way he’d sat, his legs spread, his gaze cool yet mocking, like a predator lazing before a hunt.

It made me envision things I had no right envisioning, if only for a moment.

I barely knew him.

I wasn’t sure I liked him.

And yet, his presence was so imposing that reacting to him was an inevitability, not a choice.

I shifted in my seat and glanced at the bathroom again.

“Ayana?” Sloane prompted. “Did you hear me?”

I blinked, my attention returning to the call at hand. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Your interview with Luxury Brides. Can you confirm Jordan is okay with the schedule change?”

“Yes, we’ll make it work.”

Luxury Brides magazine was doing a huge profile on our wedding. They were sending their top correspondent to Ireland for on-the-ground coverage, but they wanted to do some preliminary interviews first.

I was already dreading it.

There was a short pause before Sloane surprised the hell out of me. “Are you sure you want to go through with the wedding?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” I laughed, the sound pitched a decibel too high.

“You don’t sound too excited whenever the topic comes up.”

Nerves danced over my skin. I thought I’d done a good job playing pretend, but Sloane had always been too observant.

I’d also gone to her for advice when Jordan first came to me with his proposition. I hadn’t revealed the business aspect of our arrangement, but I had expressed my hesitation about marrying him. I’d framed it as being torn between my gratitude—he’d given me my big break as a model—and my heart. I cared about him, but was that enough?

Sloane had advised me to listen to my gut; I’d listened to logic instead.

Not everyone had the privilege of following their heart.

“I’m just overwhelmed,” I said. “I didn’t realize how much went into wedding planning. It’s stressful.”

I wasn’t sure she believed me, but she didn’t press the issue. “As long as it’s what you want.” Sloane paused again. “If you need to talk to someone, I’m always here. I’m saying that as your friend, not your publicist.”

That was as sentimental as Sloane Kensington ever got.

Emotion tangled in my throat. I forced a smile even though she couldn’t see me. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

The moment soon passed, and we went over a few more publicity-related items before hanging up. It was past midnight on the East Coast, but she worked twenty-four seven.

I was about to check my email when the shower squeaked off.

My heart rate jumped, and I quickly averted my gaze when the door opened so it didn’t look like I’d been waiting for him to come out.

Bare skin flashed in my peripheral vision, but I kept my eyes firmly planted on my phone.

At least, I tried.

Vuk bent down to fish something out of his suitcase. The muscles in his back flexed as he pulled a shirt over his head, and I glimpsed what looked like a tattoo on his inner arm before the shirt covered it.

What was the tattoo of? A symbol, a quote, a name, or a date? I wasn’t going to ask, but I was desperate to know.

I fought an annoyed groan.

I had no frame of reference for my sudden awareness of him. It wasn’t lust, per se. It was…intrigue? Curiosity? Morbid fascination?

It didn’t matter. They were all shades of the same thing. Inappropriate.

Engagement of convenience or not, I was being paid millions to act like a doting fiancée. I wasn’t going to ruin my plans over a few stray thoughts.

“How do you want to do this?” I asked after he was safely clothed. I nodded at the bed.

Vuk gave me a sardonic look. It’s a bed. We sleep in it.

“I know that. But it’s…You know what? Forget it.” I stalked into the bathroom with a huff.

I changed into my pajamas and spent the next half hour doing my nightly hair and skincare routine while Vuk did whatever he did. Brooding and plotting how to murder me in my sleep, probably.

I didn’t understand how he and Jordan were friends. Jordan was so gregarious and easygoing, and Vuk was…not.

After I layered on the necessary serums and creams, I brushed my hair, plaited it, and secured it with bobby pins. I wrapped it all up in a silk scarf before I reentered the bedroom, where I found Vuk sitting next to the bed, reading.

It was some sort of crime thriller, and I almost asked him about it before I caught myself.

I’d made enough overtures for the day. He was rude half the time, and I wasn’t a glutton for punishment.

If he didn’t want to converse like a civil person, I wasn’t going to force him to.

I climbed into bed and deliberately turned my back to him. Petty of me, sure, but this way, I didn’t have to notice how irritatingly attractive he looked with a book in his hands.

I never would’ve pegged him for a fiction reader, but I didn’t know much about him at all. Even his answer about how he’d gotten into the alcohol business had been vague.

I stared at the clock on the nightstand. Half past ten.

Pages rustled, followed by the soft thud of a book landing on wood. A moment later, the bed dipped, and body heat engulfed me.

I stiffened, afraid that if I breathed too hard, we might touch.

It didn’t matter how big the mattress was. We could be sleeping on opposite sides of the room and that would still be too close.

The comforter slid over my bare skin as Vuk settled into bed.

I squeezed my eyes shut and wished I’d worn something other than my skimpy satin pajama shorts.

I also wished I’d brought a book or my knitting needles to bed. That way, I’d have something to focus on besides the infuriating hulk of a man next to me.

Since I didn’t, I simply lay there, restless, until I finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

VUK

It was three in the morning, and I’d done fuck all since I turned off the lights besides stare at the ceiling and listen to Ayana breathe.

Her body had relaxed, and her breaths had evened out hours ago. She was clearly sleeping soundly while I was tormented by the far-too-small gap between us.

Under normal circumstances, the hotel’s king-size bed was enormous. Under my current circumstances? The Pacific Ocean wouldn’t be large enough.

I could still feel her warmth.

I could still smell her shampoo.

I could still imagine how easy it would be to close the distance between us and kiss her until she was wet and wanting.

My teeth ground together. I closed my eyes and forced myself to think about something, anything, else.

The performance of Blackcastle—the London football club I’d bought—this season.

The investigation into the fire.

The goddamn burger I’d ordered from room service earlier.

None of it worked.

In the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, my worst impulses took precedence, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

I turned my head, my eyes so attuned to the dark I could easily make out the curve of Ayana’s shoulder and the gentle swell of her hips beneath the comforter.

She slept so close to the edge she was practically falling off it—a reminder that I wasn’t, and never would be, her fiancé. I was a placeholder on this trip. If Jordan were here, they’d probably be cuddled together like fucking sea otters.

They weren’t moving in together until after the wedding, but I assumed they spent most of their nights in his house.

This was a normal occurrence for him. He wouldn’t blink an eye at going to bed with her every night and waking up next to her every morning.

The thought ground through my head. The darkness closed in to the point where I almost choked on it.

Thankfully, my phone lit up with a silent notification right at that moment and dragged me out of my spiral.

Sean.

I forced a breath through my nose and opened his email, impatient for a distraction. The man slept as few hours as I did, which worked well for our relationship.

His message contained a single sentence.

The files you asked for are attached.

Satisfaction eroded some of my gnawing envy. This was why I paid him enough money to finance a West Village brownstone and his son’s private school tuition. He did his job, and he did it well.

I opened the encrypted documents and scanned the contents. One was a full dossier on Hank Carson. The other was a similar report on his agency, Beaumont Model Management. It was named after its founder and owner, Emmanuelle Beaumont. Ayana had been signed with them her entire modeling career.

After her call with her agent, I’d asked Sean to send me everything he could find on Hank and Beaumont. At first glance, everything looked normal, but my gut told me there was something off about the agency.

I hadn’t paid much attention to them before, but Ayana’s anxiety over Hank’s call had been a red flag. So was their clean record, now that I was looking at it. Besides the usual complaints of overwork and delayed payments, their profile was almost too clean.

For an agency that’d been around for two decades, there should be some sort of scandal or rumors of impropriety. This was fashion; the industry was a breeding ground for abusers.

Either Emmanuelle was a saint and Girl Scout rolled into one, or she had a damn good team covering her tracks.

That being said, the dossiers were only the start. There were financial records to sift through, clients to track down, and a complicated web of relationships and favors to untangle.

I’d do that myself. I wanted Sean focused on finding the arson suspect, and anything Ayana-related was mine. No one else touched it.

I exited out of the files and was putting my phone back on the nightstand when she stirred.

I froze.

She mumbled something—maybe I was hearing things, but I could’ve sworn she said peanut butter—and rolled over to her other side. The movement brought her within inches of me.

I stiffened. Before I could place some much-needed distance between us, she draped her leg over mine and sighed.

Her bare skin burned through my sweatpants like they weren’t there. My body’s reaction was so visceral, so instantaneous, that I jolted away without thinking. My shoulder slammed against the nightstand and sent a shock of pain down my arm.

Ayana startled awake. “What happened?” She sat up, a thread of panic running through her drowsy voice. “Is everything okay?”

I turned on the lights and tossed the covers off. My pulse hammered in my veins. Everything’s fine.

My feet hit the floor. I grabbed my key card and phone again and stalked toward the door.

“Then why are you up at”—based on her pause, I assumed she was checking the clock—“three-thirty in the morning?”

I turned to glare at her. I’m going to the gym.

“At three-thirty in the morning?”

Yes. Hell, I’d sleep in the gym if I could. Anything to get away from her and erase the memory of her body against mine.

My expression chilled. Go back to sleep, Ayana.

I didn’t wait for a response.

I left the room and headed straight to the hotel’s lower level. The fitness center was open twenty-four hours, but it was deserted at this time of night.

Ayana probably thought I was an asshole with mood swing issues. She wouldn’t be wrong, but the more she disliked me, the better.

The only thing worse than having the woman you were obsessed with hate you was having her try to befriend you.

I grabbed a pair of dumbbells. My skin still buzzed from our brief moment of contact, but I ignored it.

Instead, I channeled all my pent-up frustrations into a punishing workout. If Sean were here, he’d berate me for being reckless with my body, but fuck that. He wasn’t the one who had to sleep in the same bed as his friend’s fiancée.

After an hour of weights and cardio, I finally stopped the treadmill and sank onto a workout bench. Sweat poured down my face and back, and my muscles screamed with fury.

I welcomed the ache. It gave me something else to focus on besides the mental image of Ayana in a white lace gown. I’d managed to push it aside during my workout, but now that I was sitting still, it came roaring back.

I rested my forearms on my knees, my heart thundering in my ears. The mirror opposite me reflected my glare.

Even after all these years, my reflection was a kick in the gut.

The scar across my face had faded from an angry red to a pinkish white, while the burns around my neck had settled into a purplish pink. The ruined skin was as healed as it would ever be, but it wasn’t the aesthetics that made my insides twist.

Whenever I looked at myself, I remembered his screams. Smelled the reek of burning flesh. Felt the pain clawing at my face and throat.

Some things stay with you no matter how much time has passed.

Back then, I didn’t have the money and medical access I had now. Even if I had, I would’ve left my scars alone.

They were my price to pay for what happened—rage and guilt and horror all packaged into a monstrous visage for everyone to gawk at. A warning to stay away, and a reminder of what I’d done.

Even if Ayana wasn’t engaged to Jordan, she wouldn’t be mine. We belonged in different worlds.

But there were moments—days—when I didn’t give a fuck. She belonged by my side. And she was right there, only floors away, like the universe had dropped her in my lap on purpose to fuck with me.

My lip curled.

I tore my eyes away from the mirror and entered the adjoining bathroom, where I turned the water on full blast and took my second cold shower of the night.