Page 112 of Desperate People

“Don’t stress about it, cuz,” Clementine says, squeezing my hand before catching up with Andrea and Aella.

She turns back before I close the front door.

“Oh! And don’t forget about the photoshoot tomorrow for Drew’s House. DeSoto’s team already confirmed everything. And they made it very clear the photographer they hired—some genius with a God complex—is on a tight schedule. One o’clock sharp at the Washington Square Arch.”

I nod slowly, trying to school my face into something calm.

Shit.

I’d completely forgotten about the photoshoot.

But I can’t cancel. I won’t.

Not when it’s for Drew’s House—my cousin’s heart-and-soul project.

It’s more than just a shelter. It’s a sanctuary. A second chance for people clawing their way out of impossible situations.

And this photoshoot? It’s for the calendar they’re releasing this Christmas, something that could fund entire programs for months.

And of course, since I’m the internet famous cousin, Clementine is counting on me to draw the attention, to help make it go viral.

I can’t let her down.

Even if my world feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet.

Even if my brand-new husband is about to go full-on vengeful cyber god on a pop star with no concept of boundaries.

I look at my phone again, and suddenly my stomach is full of lead.

This is exactly what I didn’t want—secrecy. Drama. Trouble.

I glance toward the front windows, my nerves buzzing now with something that isn’t quite fear but feels an awful lot like shame. Not because of what I did, but because I even hesitated.

Because this man—my husband—deserves better than that.

And I hope when he walks through that door, I’ll be able to explain that to him.

Before he goes from zero to sixty, jumping to conclusions.

Before this new foundation we built on our honeymoon crumbles before it has a chance to set.

I remain standing by the now closed front door, looking through the glass until I see it.

The black SUV Balor took to the city just a few hours ago.

He’s home. And now I have to face the music.

Chapter Twenty-Six-Balor

I’m staring at the phone like it’s the fucking enemy while Onyx takes the fast route home—one of the back ways, less traffic, fewer eyes.

He sent her flowers.

That slimy little prick sent my wife flowers.

Motherfucker.

The moment the delivery hit our gate, my head of security messaged me. I knew before Lucy did.

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