Page 33 of Repluse

“Logan thought if he threw us together, you’d reach out in some way.’

“I did,” I blurt, panic now setting in as I wonder what all this is leading to.

“I know, but I didn’t tell him that.”

“Did he ask?”

“In a roundabout sort of way. He called me the Monday after the party, apologised again for the potential investors not showing, and casually asked what we’d been talking about. I told him nothing much, just a general yarn about nothing. Then he asked to meet up as he had a proposition for me.”

My eyeballs feel like they’re shaking. Everything in my peripheral vision moves and I have to keep blinking to focus. I’ve never felt anything like it.

“Did you meet?” I ask, the level of nausea I’m now feeling making my mouth water.

“Yeah, on the Wednesday after the party.”

I can barely breathe. Sam must notice my panic because he twists towards me, one arm sliding across the back of my stool to rest on my shoulders, the other into my lap where his large hand gives my thigh a gentle squeeze.

“What was the proposal?”

“That I capture footage… video, photos, whatever, of you being fucked by two men, whether I be involved or not; he didn’t care. He just needed the evidence for the divorce petition he’ll eventually serve you with.”

That’s the moment my hearing becomes affected, and all I can hear is a loud, deep buzzing for a few seconds. My eyes water, but I’m not crying. It’s shock or fear causing the reaction. I think.

I don’t know.

Right now, I don’t know anything.

“He told me you’ve had multiple affairs since you’ve been married. You spenthismoney onyourlovers, and he just needed evidence of the kind of person you really are so a judge won’t rule favourably on your part when he divorces you. He told me he was worried you’d go after the business.”

“We have a prenup,” I wail pathetically.

“I’m aware of that now,” Frankie states as he leans into his palms on the counter. “He lied to me, Mila—convinced meyouare a lying, conniving bitch who’s been having multiple affairs. If I could get him proof of your infidelity, he would invest heavily in our expansion project.”

Despite the bile rising up from my belly, my mouth has gone dry. Somehow, I still manage to get my words out. “You made the deal? You set me up…” The first a question. The second a statement. “You set me up,” I repeat. I close my eyes in the hope it’ll make everything stop spinning. It doesn’t, and I have to quickly slide off the stool and move around to the sink to vomit.

Sam’s right there with me, rubbing my back, holding my hair out of the way. Resting my forearms on the counter surrounding the sink, I attempt to compose myself. Despite feeling cold, I feel sweat trickle down my back. Sam runs the tap. Luckily my stomach’s empty, so it’s just the gin I’ve brought up. He hands me a bottle of water, and as I straighten to take it, my eyelids feel heavy, and my legs buckle beneath me.

It takes three attempts,but I finally manage to drag my eyelids apart. My limbs still feel heavy, but the spinning has stopped. Now it just feels like everything is gently swaying instead. Sam comes into focus, and my brain starts to piece together where I am and why.

A pain shoots through my temple, and I wince. Sam brushes my hair away from my face, and we make eye contact.

“That was fucking scary. You okay?” he asks as he leans in and kisses my forehead.

“What happened?” I attempt to sit up.

Sam helps, then adjusts the cushions behind my back. I’m on the sofa, with a chunky, hand-knitted, woollen throw over me. I consider asking him where he got it because that’s just how discombobulated I am right now, but forming the words feels like too much effort.

As Sam sits back on the edge of the sofa next to me, I see Frankie over his shoulder. He’s leaning against the timber partition between the sliding glass doors. He’s lost the jacket to his suit, and his shirt sleeves are now rolled up, exposing his forearms, which are folded across his chest. His long legs are crossed at the ankles. He’s devastatingly handsome, all dark, brooding, and mean looking, and sadness washes over me at his betrayal. I stupidly thought this man was my friend—an ally. Instead, he’s been complicit in making sure I’m about to betruly fucked by my husband in our apparently imminent divorce proceedings.

“Did he drug me?” I ask Sam with a chin tilt towards Frankie.

“Mila…” Frankie sighs out my name as he takes a step towards me.

“Don’t come near me,” I order, holding up my palm.

“No,” Sam interjects. “He didn’t drug you. You’ve had a big week. A lot’s gone on, and I think with the hit to your head, stitches, a broken wrist, and pain killers, the alcohol hit you a little harder than you were expecting.”

“Hehit me! Hisbetrayalis what I wasn’t expecting.”

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