Page 96 of Vengeful Vows

He cusses before the button I selected almost a minute ago finally illuminates.

41

MARA

“Our relationship has been a whirlwind, but gosh…” A quick stab of jealousy ripples the air as Veronika locks her loved-up eyes with the camera and says, “When you know, you know.”

“And you know?” I have mad respect for the reporter when she murmurs, “Already.”

Veronika’s eyes narrow into thin slits. “Whatever do you mean? We’ve been dating for almost a month.”

“A month?” The entertainment reporter doing live interviews with the attendees of Ark’s fortieth birthday checks a notepad before saying, “My calculations are closer to a week.”

“That’s just silly,” Veronika replies, her voice suddenly not so chipper. “We had a slight bump at the start of our courtship, but Ark took care ofthatin less than a weekend. It’s been smooth sailing ever since.” She leans in close like there aren’t millions of viewers hanging off her every word. “Between you and me, you’ll find out just how serious things are later tonight.”

When she wiggles her fingers to highlight the only one missing a ring is her engagement finger, I switch off the television and dump the remote on my scratched coffee table.

My decision to turn down Mrs. Whitten’s position was challenging, but the footage broadcast across the globe tonight exposes that staying would have been more difficult.

It hurt standing across from Ark for five minutes, so I wouldn’t have survived being under the same roof as him day in and day out. I would have continually wondered about the reason behind his decision to pull on the reins and possibly take responsibility for issues not solely mine to bear.

I pushed Ark to open up to me, but it seems as if there are more significant issues beyond revealed secrets keeping us apart.

If I had the courage, I would seek answers.

Since I don’t, I shoot my hands up to my hair and groan.

I’m close to pulling my hair out when a little voice reminds me that I’m not alone to sulk in my misery as I have been for the past week. “He doesn’t love her.”

I drag my eyes away from the black television screen to Tillie, who is sitting on the floor, making fan-cast collages from the glossy magazines Mrs. Lichard devours every week.

Tillie continues cutting Veronika out of an image of her and Ark at a charity dinner earlier this week. “I don’t even think he likes her.”

“Of course he likes her,” I deny. “He wouldn’t date her if he didn’t like her.”

“Then why won’t he let her touch him?”

My heart thumps into my ears when she places down the magazine she’s dismantling to find one under a stack of many. She flicks to a two-page spread of Ark and Veronika’s courtship before highlighting an image not even a photoshop expert could piece together.

The sign at the back of Ark’s and Veronika’s heads don’t match since several words are missing from the middle of the slogan.

“It’s the same in every photo.” My heart slowly crawls out of the hole it was buried in last week when she flicks through endless articles printed about Ark over the last few days. “He won’t touch her. He refuses.”

The image at the top of the stack shows Ark’s hand hovering inches from Veronika’s back. Even if she suddenly stopped walking down the red carpet she was commanding like a model does a catwalk, his hand wouldn’t have gotten close to making contact.

“Then there’s this image.” My heart launches into my throat when she thrusts a magazine to within an inch of my face. “He had no trouble touchingthiswoman.”

Tears prick my eyes when I remove the magazine from her grasp to drink in an image I had no clue had been taken. The reporter of the story is claiming the headless, almost X-rated photograph is of Ark and Veronika seeking outfits for their alleged upcoming engagement party. I know that isn’t true.

The person photographed with Ark isn’t Veronika. It’s me. My heart knows this, and so does Tillie, because if she hadn’t barged into the changing room where Ark was assisting me with removing the dress he had purchased for me, the paparazzo’s shot would have been far more risqué.

“That’s you,” Tillie announces, unashamed. She licks her lips before locking her too-worldly-for-her-age eyes with mine. “He won’t touch her”—she growls, baring teeth while lowering her eyes to Veronika’s photo—“but he had no trouble touching you. That has to mean something.”

There’s too much hope firing through me not to try to downplay it. “Touching someone without permission isn’t kosher. Perhaps he’s trying to be respectful of Veronika’s boundaries.”

Her brows furrow. “So he asked you if he could kiss you before he did?”

I cough to smooth out the scratchiness impinging my throat from her question before acting daft. “I beg your pardon?” I say with a laugh, stupidly nervous.

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