The Contract That Put Me in His Father's Bed

Emily's POV 

"Are you insane?" His voice hissed against my ear, hot and irritated at the same time.

Marcus's fingers dug into my waist forcefully, pulling me into the dark corner of the service hallway. The smell of the whiskey I had been drinking mixed with his expensive cologne, the one I had chosen myself on the last trip to Paris.

"I'm not insane, Marcus. I know what I saw."

I tried to push him away, but he pressed me against the cold wall, one hand moving up to my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes.

"Shut up." He ordered, and before I could respond, his lips sealed mine.

It was a hard kiss, possessive. The kind of kiss that used to make me melt. Now? Now it only made me disgusted with myself for still trembling when he touched me.

When he pulled back and fixed my glasses, his gaze remained cold.

"Don't throw a tantrum, Emily. Not here. Not today."

"Tantrum?" My voice came out shakier than I wanted. "You disappeared for two hours last night. Came back with that on your neck and expect me to pretend I saw nothing?"

"You didn't see anything because there was nothing to see." He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled blond hair. "You're drinking too much, Emily. It's making you paranoid."

"Paranoid?" I laughed, but it wasn't funny at all. "Ever since we arrived in Italy, you barely look at me. You only call me when you need me to cover something up. And when I ask about the dinner with your family, you change the subject. Why, Marcus? Are you ashamed of me?"

He narrowed his eyes, and for a second, I saw something dangerous there.

"Ashamed? I'm trying to build an image, Emily. You know that. My father wouldn't understand if I showed up with a photographer I met in college."

A photographer I met in college.

That's how he saw me.

2 years and 4 months of secrets, of hidden meetings, of entering events through the back door, and all I was to him was "the photographer I met in college."

"Go back to the staff." His voice had the tone of someone giving an order. "Finish covering the fashion show as agreed. We'll talk later."

He was about to turn and leave, but I grabbed his arm.

"What about the dinner? You said today you were going to introduce me to your mother."

Marcus stopped. For a second, he didn't even breathe.

"Tomorrow. I'll send you the address. Now go, Emily. For God's sake, stop drinking."

He walked away without looking back, his firm footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

I stood there, the taste of his kiss still in my mouth, the smell of his cologne ingrained in my skin, and one question hammering in my head since that dawn.

Should I tell him I'm pregnant?

My hand unconsciously went to my belly. Still flat. Still empty of any sign. But the tests didn't lie. Two lines. Blue. As clear as the certainty that something was wrong with him.

I swallowed the tears and went back to the hall, noticing that the fashion show had already started when I arrived.

The models walked down the makeshift runway in the middle of the Italian villa's gardens, long flowing dresses, jewelry worth more than I would earn in ten years of work. The afternoon sun left everything golden, perfect for photos.

Perfect for his family's brand.

I raised the camera, focusing on the images, trying to lose myself in the shutter. Click. Click. Each photo was a second I didn't have to think about him.

But I felt his eyes.

Even from afar, Marcus was there, sitting in the front row next to the main models. Handsome. Impossible. Just like he had been since the day he walked into the college classroom and everyone turned to look.

His perfectly styled blond hair, the dark suit that probably cost more than my apartment. He was laughing at something the woman beside him said.

Redhead.

Thin.

Perfect.

Her hand rested on his arm, sliding down to his fingers, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world. He didn't pull away.

My stomach churned. And it wasn't just the whiskey.

Who was she? A model? A socialite? Someone he would be proud to introduce to his mother?

"Emily."

A hand squeezed mine, firm, warm.

I let out the air without realizing I had been holding it. Next to me, Nathalie held my fingers, her brown eyes fixed on mine with concern.

"Let go of the camera before you break it." Nathalie whispered.

I looked at my hands. My knuckles were white from gripping so tightly.

"That redhead." My voice came out hoarse. "Who is she?"

She followed my gaze and frowned. "Claire Holloway. Main model of the collection. Why?"

"She's glued to him."

"Emily." Nathalie squeezed my fingers harder. "You're projecting. Marcus has to interact with the models, it's part of his job."

"Job?" I almost laughed. "He's the owner's son, Nathalie. He doesn't need to work. He just needs to exist."

"You're drunk."

"I'm sober enough to know he lies."

Nathalie pulled me behind the professional cameras, away from the public eye.

"Listen. I know you two are together. I know it's been hard. But you can't do this here. Not today. There's press from all over the world. If you make a scene..."

"You think I'm going to make a scene?" My voice rose a tone. "I'm here working, my friend. Working for his family. Hidden as always. While she..." I looked back at the front row. "Where did he go?"

The chairs were empty.

Both Marcus's and the redhead's.

My heart raced in my chest.

"Nat, where did he go?"

"Emily, calm down..."

"WHERE DID HE GO?"

I didn't wait for her answer.

I left her with the words hanging in the air and walked between the cameras, the cables, the assistants running from side to side. Someone shouted my name, asking me to come back, but I had already entered the restricted area.

The security guards knew me. Or rather, they knew the photographer hired to cover the event. When I passed through the hallway leading to the dressing rooms, no one stopped me.

I just needed to find him.

I needed to see with my own eyes if what I imagined was true.

The hallway grew quieter with each step. The party music became a distant buzz. And it was there, at the end, that I heard it.

A moan.

Muffled. Coming from the room at the end of the hall.

My blood froze.

The main dressing room door was ajar. The light came from inside, warm, golden.

The moan came again. Louder. And a voice I knew better than my own.

"Emily..."

No.

"Emily..."

My heart stopped.

I pushed the door open.

And I saw.

Marcus with his back to me, his shirt open, his hands firm on the redhead's waist who was sitting on the makeup table, her legs wrapped around him. Her dress was all crumpled, hitched up, and her red lips were attached to his neck.

The same neck I had seen yesterday.

The same place as the hickey he said I was imagining.

"Don't call me by her name." The redhead's voice came out between kisses. "Not now."

Marcus laughed. That low laugh I knew so well.

And something inside me shattered.