Page 73 of Parker

The elevator doors slide open directly into the penthouse suite. A thick navy-blue carpet spreads across the sitting room. Soft gold lighting highlights the walls. Every fixture and fitting screams wealth. The dark curtains are drawn closed. This is the kind of privacy money buys. Regal, hidden, and silent.

The attendant gestures for us to step out. Ebony follows my lead.

“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Parker. Miss,” he says with a courteous nod before the doors close.

It’s impressive. I would be disappointed if it weren’t. High ceilings, a marble fireplace, a dining table set for two. Everything is as expected.

Except there is only one other door.

I walk in the direction of the room, stopping at the doorway and looking inside. My stomach drops. There’s only one bedroom.

A king-sized bed, turned down with navy silk sheets. Roses scattered across the bedspread, chocolates on the pillow, robes folded at the end. My jaw tightens.

“Ebony,” I say without turning. I feel her at my shoulder. “Where’s the second bedroom?”

She moves past me, walking over to the bed and placing her handbag down.

“There isn’t one.” She looks me straight in the eye, unfazed. “It made sense—for the narrative. A romantic suite sells the story more if anyone looks into it.”

“For the narrative?” I repeat her words. I don’t know what else to say.

“What kind of power couple sleeps in separate beds?” She raises a single eyebrow, goading me to argue.

“One that doesn’t fucking exist,” I snarl. “We aren’t playing house.”

She doesn’t flinch. “The hotel’s fully booked. There’s a wedding party here. Even if we wanted to change it, there’s nothing else available.”

“And you knew that when?”

“Yesterday, Boyd told me. He asked if I wanted to keep the reservation. I said yes.”

Of course she did.

I drag a hand over my face and exhale. “This isn’t what I signed up for. You and I are fake.”

“It’s not what I wanted either,” she agrees.

That stops me. For a second, I almost believe her.

But she’s already moving across the room, slipping off her heels like we didn’t just throw another gallon of fuel on this dumpster fire. I stare at the bed, then at her.

She doesn’t answer. She knows she’s won.

***

Later that evening, Ebony stands looking in the full-length mirror and applies ruby red lipstick with precision. Her red figure-hugging dress shows off every curve, and her sky-high heels elongate her legs. She looks incredible. I walk up behind her, and she smiles softly in the mirror.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” I say. “My words were blunt, but I need to be sure you don’t have the wrong impression about what this is.” She flushes and looks away. “I am still very much in love with Nicky.” My words land hard as pain flickers over her features. “There will be no one else.”

“I haven’t asked you for anything,” she murmurs.

“You don’t have to. I can feel it.” I step away before she can respond.

There was a time the tension of my situation with Ebony and tonight’s dinner would have sent me straight to the bottle. One drink then another to steady my nerves. I’d learned to live through the fog. Sometimes, I wonder if sobriety is a blessing or a curse.

***

The private dining room is all velvet and polished silver. The air is thick with whiskey, politics, and the smell of expensive aftershave. The city’s influential leaders are halfway through a bottle of Macallan, merrily stroking their own egos. Theseare the men who sign off on contracts and make headlines disappear.