Page 8 of Release Me

Ditto, my darling.

Ditto.

Just a crying shame you’re married to my best friend.

Chapter Three

REBEKKA

The press love me this week.

Visionary.Elegant.Poised.Their words splash across the arts pages beside several photographs of me on the stage. My speech is quoted in three different outlets, the reviews glowing enough to make even my father proud—well, they would do, if he cared about anything beyond his next drink.

I should be glowing. I should be basking in the success of the biggest night of my career. Instead, all I can think about is the brush of lips against my cheek.

That familiar masculine scent.

Those big brown orbs, so dark they’re almost black.

Rian Beckett.

I’ve thought about the night we met a million times since. In the beginning, I brushed it off as a harmless flirtation, but that sizzling attraction between us hasn’t faded over the years. No, it’s got gradually stronger with every agonising minute we’re together. We’ve spent holidays skiing with Ivy and Caelon and the other Becketts. Birthdays. Christmases.

Although lately, we’ve been forced together less as Anthony has refused point blank to spend any time with meother than for formal social occasions—which frankly suits me down to the ground.

I didn’t realise how much I’d missed Rian though until I saw him again this week. I press the heel of my hand to my chest, as though I can rub away the memory.

I can’t.

The warmth of his mouth lingers on my cheek, the weight of his words burrows deeper than the praise in every article stacked on my desk.

Beautiful.

Stunning.

You’ll kill it tonight.

Words Anthony has never said to me—not even in the beginning. Words I didn’t know I was starving for until Rian fed them to me.

I woke up in my four-poster bed alone—as usual—Anthony and I haven’t even tried to share a room in over a year, with guilt eating at me for something that I didn’t even do. Thinking salacious thoughts about another man might be immoral, but it isn’t a crime. I bet my husband hasn’t beat himself up once, and I know for a fact he’s done a lot worse thanthinkinappropriate thoughts about someone other than his spouse.

It really is a man’s world.

My phone buzzes across the glass-topped desk, dragging me out of my spiralling thoughts.Ivy. She’s one of the few genuine friends I’ve made here. In fact, now I think about it, the only genuine friends I’ve made here are all Becketts—by marriage. Scarlett, my other friend, is married to Rian’s oldest brother, James. Avery, another friend, is engaged to Killian, Rian’s slightly scary middle brother.

Why, oh why, couldn’t my arranged marriage have been to Rian?

I swipe to answer Ivy’s call.

‘Bekka! Congratulations again on the other night—you were amazing. I swear, you had the entire room eating out of your hand.’ Ivy’s voice is pure vibrant sunshine, a welcome contrast to the perpetual greyness of Dublin’s sky pressing against my office window.

‘Thank you,’ I murmur, throat tightening. ‘It went… well, I guess.’ Anthony’s words from the car ride home float through my mind.‘You talked too much. Too fast. No one cares.’

‘Well?It went brilliantly,’ she laughs. ‘Have you seen the write-ups from the press? They loved you. You should be so proud.’

‘I suppose…’ My eyes flick to my computer screen. Why is accepting a compliment so challenging?

‘We should celebrate! I was thinking… drinks after work? Caelon can babysit for once.’