I switch to the messaging app and send him a quick thank you.

His answer is swift and to the point: I’d do anything for you.

I know. I missed you today.

I amuse myself by counting the seconds until he replies. Only seven.

Missed you more. I’m at the house. The limo’s coming at 5. How long do you need to get dressed?

I check the time, and it’s not yet three.

Not two hours, I type. If you have some idea of how to fill the time . . .

His reply makes me smile: I’m full of ideas. Tell your driver to hurry. And in the meantime, imagine me, touching you.

I laugh as I send one final message: I always do.

I’ve just re-opened my email app when I notice a new email from youradoringhusband at an email server I’m not familiar with. I purse my lips in amusement, wondering what Damien’s up to now.

But when I open the email to see what he sent this time, my smile freezes on my face, and the message makes me queasy.

Did you really think you could have both?

Below the words is a picture of Sofia, her head on Damien’s shoulder.

And not just one picture, but several. And in each and every one, they’re standing right in front of the Santa Barbara Pearl Hotel.

17

By the time I arrive home, my tears have completely destroyed my freshly applied makeup and I’m an angry, hurt, hormonal mess. I order the driver to wait, then hurry to the front door and punch in my key code.

The lock clicks open, and I push the door, anxious to get inside and get my things for the premiere tonight. I’m so hurt and twisted up and hormonal that all I want to do is get out of here. Because I see a huge fight looming, and I can’t deal with that right now.

I don’t believe the email’s suggestion that Damien’s cheating on me—honestly, I can’t imagine a world in which I could ever believe he cheated on me—but he did keep this huge, hurtful secret from me. And not only did he keep a secret, he actually lied when I asked him why he’d gone to Santa Barbara. He’d lied about Sofia. Sofia.

The woman who tried to take Damien. Who tried to destroy me. And, honestly, almost succeeded.

So I need time. To get my thoughts together. To calm my raging hormones. To figure out what I’m going to say to him.

Mostly, to stop this explosion building inside me before I lash out at him and completely destroy an evening that means so much to so many of my friends.

That’s my plan, anyway, but as soon as I enter the house, I’m stopped by the sight before me—hundreds of red and pink rose petals scattered over the floor of the entrance hall and trailing up the massive staircase.

A lump forms in my throat, and though it’s hard to believe I have any more tears to shed, when I blink, warm liquid trails down my cheeks. When I draw in a stuttering breath, I taste the salt of my tears. This is what I want. Tenderness and love and romance. Not secrets and deceit and lies.

I swallow hard as I cast my gaze around, looking at the romantic setting he’s created with the petals and soft candlelight. For a moment, my resolve wavers, and I think that I need to hurry and find him.

But then I remember the pictures on my phone. Work problem? I mentally scoff at Damien’s explanation of why he’d gone to Santa Barbara. Sofia is a lot of things, but she sure as hell isn’t a work problem.

The cloying scent of the roses surrounds me as I crush petals beneath my ballet-style flats in my hurry up the stairs. I wrinkle my nose, fighting nausea, then I force myself to focus on getting my things and getting the hell out of there.

I expect to see Damien on the third floor, which is where we spend most of our time, but he’s not there, and I realize that he’s probably in the cabana by the pool, waiting with chilled fruit juice for me to find him.

Normally, I’d be tempted.

Today, I’m grateful that I can get in and get out. I’m not ready for a fight—my wounds feel too raw. All I really want to do is find someplace to hide away, curled up into a ball until I can gather the strength to have it out with my husband.

I’d be there right now—locked away in some out of the way motel—if it weren’t for tonight’s premiere. But there’s no way I’m going to skip Jane’s movie or the fundraiser. The foundation is too important to me—too important to all those kids.

So I’ll be there. And with any luck, I’ll have pulled myself together before I have to step from a limo onto that red carpet.

My closet is huge, approximately the size of the bedroom I used to have in Jamie’s condo, and one entire wall is devoted to formal wear. Ironic, considering that once I walked away from the pageant life, I swore that if I never saw another sequin, it would be too soon. But, somehow, dressing up isn’t painful when you’re on the arm of someone you love, and as I look at my gowns, I feel a little stab in my heart.

I want Damien here—I do.

I’m just not ready to face him yet.

The dress I’ve selected for tonight hangs at the front, still in protective plastic from the few minor alterations. I use the library style ladder to retrieve my garment bag from a top shelf, then slide the dress inside. I zip it securely and fold the bag over to carry like a soft-sided suitcase. There’s a shoe pocket on the outside, and I find the black stiletto sandals I’d picked for the evening and put them inside, then grab my travel cosmetics case, because I’m going to need to do some makeup repair before I’m picture-ready.

Finally, I open the jewelry safe and pull out the platinum and emerald ankle bracelet that Damien bought me when we first started dating. It will be hidden under the dress, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve worn it to every event we’ve attended together, and I’m not going to stop tonight.

I set it in its box on the granite island in the center of the closet, then consider how best to carry it. I know I’m overthinking—it’s not like I’m going to lose it just going to the car and then a motel, but I can’t help but be paranoid. The thing probably cost more than Air Force One—and it has a hell of a lot more sentimental value.

Since I’d foolishly left my purse in the car, I decide to tuck it into the outside, zippered pocket on the garment bag. I’m about to do that when I realize I’m not alone. I turn—and there he is.

“What the hell, Nikki?”

He’s standing in the closet doorway in khaki shorts and a white henley that accentuates his tan. Over the last couple of years, he’s started playing tennis again, and he’s all muscle and sinew, the material of the shirt straining against his broad shoulders and strong upper arms.