Page 10 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

"I don't know, Mateo. I want to believe you. Why would Delaney lie?"

"Because she's a stupid, vapid fucking leech. I'm telling you, I didn't do this. Fuck!Esto es tan jodidamente estúpido!"

"You know I don't speak Spanish, dick. And how do you explain the pictures?"

"What, that girl doesn't know how to doctor photos? Doesn't she edit that shit for a living?"

It's a good point, and all the evidence—the fact that I knew so surely before today that he doesn't like her, and Portia's points regarding Delaney's feelings, how weird she's been lately—I think I believe him. Iwantto believe him. Still…

"Lucy is everything to me. Where is she? At home? Please tell me she went home, that she's somewhere safe."

When Portia says nothing, he pleads, "Please tell me. I could never cheat on her. Ever."

She clears her throat. "Mateo, it's just you and me here. I've got Lucy's back, and I'll help her pick up the pieces. If you truly love her, you won't drag this on or lie. Hell, maybe you two could even work it out. But tell me straight, right now: did you cheat on Lucy? Did you sleep with Delaney?"

There isn't even a moment of hesitation in his voice. No stalling, no hedging. "Never. Fuckingnever."

I bite my lip, sucking in a breath, holding back the tears. I tap the mute button on Portia's phone.

"I don't know what to do," I admit. "I need some time to think."

I don't have to analyze why. Because I believe him about Delaney, but there's that big empty space of unsaid things between us. Mateo might not have been unfaithful, but he's hiding something from me, and we aren't okay. I hate admitting it, but we haven't been okay for a while.

Portia unmutes the phone and tells Mateo he should give me space, maybe a day or two to think.

He replies, "I understand. It'll take me about thirty minutes to get home. Hopefully that's enough time for her." Then he hangs up.

What a dick. He knew she meant more than thirty minutes.

"You can come to my place and hide out."

A genuine smile, maybe my first since yesterday, curls at my lips. "You're a good friend, Portia. No, I think he and I have a lot to talk about. But just you offering… I appreciate it."

"Anytime. I mean that, Lucy. I'm here for you."

Feeling marginally better than I did twenty minutes ago, we part ways.

I can either believe the photos, that I missed all the signs in my relationship, and that Mateo is an exceptional liar, and he cheated on me. Or I can believe that Delaney orchestrated the whole thing for some cruel reason, and Mateo is innocent.

Regardless of the truth, my relationship is still in jeopardy.

Chapter 4

Mateo

Traffic is fucking unbearable. It takes forever to get home, urging my driver faster, and when I get impatient enough, I hop out of the car and jog the rest of the way.

Dodging and weaving through groups of pedestrians, I probably look like an asshole. My phone vibrates in my pocket, my receptionist likely freaking out that I left in the middle of the workday, but I can't bring myself to care about anything but Lucy.

By the time I make it inside, ignoring the friendly wave from the doorman, stabbing the elevator button a million times as if that would make the thing move faster, I'm less pissed off, more anxious. It's not a feeling I'm used to. Lucy has it in spades, and I try to share her burden, but knowing how she probably feels right now is throwing me off.

Noah and Silas would know what to do, how to make her feel better. My best friends were always better at comfort than I was. This is why I'm shit at this—being a partner, a boyfriend.

My first time in a real relationship, and I'm failing spectacularly.

The shitstorm I've accidentally created is coming to a head, I just fucking know it, and it's got nothing to do with fake pictures. The air crackles with it, a storm cloud threatening to unleash an unholy fury of lies and secrets. It teases the edges of my sanity,my careful house of cards, the life I've been trying to build with Lucy hanging precariously in the balance.

Leaning against the wall in the elevator, I stare at my reflection, and somehow, it's still shocking that the anger bubbling beneath the surface doesn't show. I look like I always do. Indifferent. Stoic.

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