The woman’s fingers playfully dance along JP’s chest. Her voice, laced with sultry promise, cuts through the din. “Come on, JP, you’re missing all the fun.”
He stirs as she playfully slaps his face. He opens his eyes and stares at her, then moves his focus back to me. Once again, it’s like he’s looking straight through me. Like I’m an unwelcome stranger in his debauched playground.
I stand there in shock.
He lied. He promised that he’d stopped. That I could trust him. He swore he’d chosen me. He had me convinced-this ordinary, plain Lucy-that I was enough. That I was his world.
But I was never enough.
I’m just dependable old Lucy, foolish enough to think a man like him could love me.
Plain little Lucy, not quite enough to get promoted. Lucy-the-doormat, Lucy-the-yes-woman, always bending over backward for everyone-Mom, Andy, Matty, Spider, Dave the real estate jerk.
It started as sex. Raw, primal, unforgettable sex.
And that’s when he presented me with the finest version of himself, the facade. He reeled me in gradually, exposing a gentle, nurturing side. He stripped away the layers of his moody exterior, showing me something unique, a side I was convinced nobody else had glimpsed.
The flawless boyfriend act. Sweet, caring, intoxicating. The dinners, the comic conventions, the shared evenings, weekends, stolen moments in the office that made me lower my guard. He made me trust him, and I let him into my heart.
Then the curtain lifted on his clandestine double life.
A night in my arms, followed by a night in the grip of his high. JP Wolfe, the billionaire playboy with an inclination for snorting lines of white and whatever else suited his whims. Not quite an addict, but close enough to fracture our budding relationship.
At first, when it was just sex, I looked the other way. Who was I to dictate his lifestyle?
But it started to gnaw at me. So he swore he was changing. That he fell into this lifestyle when he moved to Vegas at twenty-one. That he was going to prove it to me and stay away from drugs, the party lifestyle and all that comes with it.
I believed him. Like a doormat.
Now his gaze meets mine, empty and cold. He looks like he’s been hitting the powder harder than Scarface.
I choke out his name, a plea, a final effort to reach him in his narcotic haze. “JP,” I whisper, hoarse. “Get up.”
He stirs, stumbles up from the couch, and staggers toward me with a disturbing cockiness.
My gaze desperately searches his features for any remnants of the man who once made me feel special.
But there’s nothing.
I’m just plain Lucy, boring Lucy, not sparkly or exciting enough to hold JP’s interest.
Without saying a word, he grazes a finger slowly down my cheek, smiles, then saunters off toward the bathroom.
My heart shatters into a million pieces. The sob I’ve been choking on finally escapes, a feral cry marking my defeat.
I’m done. Enough of this crap. I pivot and stride out, angrily wiping the tears off my face. But I won’t shed any more over that bastard again. I’m worth more, even if he can’t see it. More than this circus, more than him. I have to be.
The party can rage on without me, and JP Wolfe can go to hell.
Present day
JP
Amanda, my assistant, couldn’t bluff her way out of a paper bag, let alone a poker game. I once tried teaching her the art of the game, but poker’s not all about the nuts and bolts. It’s a performance, a dance where you shroud your raw emotions beneath a poker face of stone-cold stoicism.
One look at Amanda’s face now, and I can tell-the floodgates are open. The secret I’ve hidden away like a monster in the closet has been let loose.
“Mr. Wolfe,” she stammers, her voice barely audible, hovering in the doorway like she’s on the brink of a precipice. “The internet… you need to see it.”
“The internet? You’re going to have to be more specific,” Killian jests. His smirk widens, only for it to fade when he catches my gaze.
Connor throws a glance my way.
“You’re trending,” Amanda says as she stares at me, horrified.
Exhaling deeply, I turn on the boardroom screen and web-search my own name. I’m trending nationwide, above geopolitical conflict, economic collapse, and some celebrity scandal.
Billionaire Playboy’s Wild Drug-Fueled Parties Exposed! screams the headlines.
As expected, the provocative tabloid-style headlines shout from the top, with the more measured pieces hidden away below, unnoticed and unread.
“Click on it,” Killian barks.
I comply, watching my life unravel in millions of pixels across the country. A deadly silence fills the room, only broken by the distant echoes of laughter on the screen.
The video that I’ve been so desperately trying to hide has been viewed over a million times, according to the number in the corner of the screen. The lawyers had said it was dealt with.
But it’s not the judgment of the world that worries me. It’s the judgment of four people-Mags, my two nephews, and Lucy.
“Goddammit, JP!” Killian explodes, his face crimson. “Our license is on the line here! I thought you said it was handled.”
Connor, usually the wisecracking guy, is speechless. Amanda stands frozen at the door. The poor girl looks like she’s been sentenced to death.
A tsunami of dread crashes over me, a cold reminder of the magnitude of my screw-up. The casino industry, a fortress of iron-clad rules and regulations, doesn’t take kindly to renegades. Killian’s right-this scandal could cost us our license.
I’m hit by a wave of self-loathing as I gaze at the screen. I’ve been the worst kind of jerk. Not only have I gambled with my business and fortune, but also the Quinns’ future. Now everything we worked for could come crashing down because of my stupidity.
But the real knife in my gut, the one thing that showcases my selfishness more than anything else, is that all I can think about is Lucy. I know how she’ll react because I’ve been here before. I’ve faced this torment once, and here I am, gearing up for round two.
I may just have found my biggest fear in life: being forced to relive the same damn mistakes.