Page 37 of Too Good to be True

Photographers hone in like a swarm of bees to their hive as the bellboy leads me out of the glamorous hotel.

"How long has the affair with Mr. Moore been going on?"

"Is it true that Mr. Moore paid you in jewels for sex?"

“Do you always travel with Mr. Moore to accommodate his sexual appetite?”

I’m going to be sick. The night manager comes to help push the paparazzi back and lead me outside. The questions go on and on. I keep my head down and don't look up again until the cab pulls away from the curb.

"Rough night, love?" the cab driver asks.

I can't answer. I just nod my head and wipe at my eyes. I zone out for the rest of the drive to the airport, then go through the motions at the security check. It isn't until I'm sitting at the gate that I pull my phone out and type Tim Moore's name into the search bar.

Timothy James Moore, otherwise known as TJ Moore, is the youngest son of real estate mogul William Moore. He's engaged to Siena Campbell. I feel bile rise in the back of my throat. She’s not only his girlfriend, she’s his fiancé.

Siena's father heads up a rival real estate conglomerate. Once the two are married, the companies are set to merge, promising to become the largest real estate company in the country. Images of the happy couple fill the screen as I scroll down. Just when I thought my heart couldn't hurt anymore.

I want to curl up in a ball and cry. I don’t, though. I need to have something to look forward to doing when I get home.

I focus on the images. Especially their engagement picture. Siena is gorgeous. I hate her. I hate her because she’s engaged to Tim, but I hate her even more because she's everything I'm not. Tall. Perfect body. Blonde.

Tim looks just as devastatingly handsome as he did at the wedding. As he did every time I saw him. But something's missing in his eyes. The playful glimmer. The light of mischief that was always shining in them. His eyes look sad. Almost empty.

I shake the thought off. I'm seeing what I want to see, just the way I did over the last couple of days. I wanted to see a great guy, and that’s what I let myself believe he was. The illusion is shattered.

I turn my phone off and board the plane. I vow to forget Timothy Moore and everything that happened between us. The problem is, every time I look down at the bracelet on my wrist, I remember each moment. Every detail. I know I should take it off, but if I do, it's like none of it happened at all.

I need something to prove that it was real. To prove that for three days, I was good enough to be seen on the arm of Timothy Moore.

*

Itake the first weekhome off from work. Reporters set up camp outside my apartment. Luckily, the landlord has them pushed back off the property. The second week, I put on my big girl panties and deal with the stares and whispers everywhere I go: work, the gym, especially the grocery store.

Looks like I hit the big time. The front pages of all the gossip rags at the grocery store have pictures of me running off after the skirmish between Tim and Ian. Some also have pictures of Tim, Siena, and me. And I'm important enough to have gained a nickname. The one that’s sticking is the Mogul Masher.

My phone is turned off almost all the time. When it's on, it doesn't stop ringing; mostly news outlets looking for a statement, or random men calling for dates or telling me all the things they’d like to do to me. I can only imagine how they got my number. I've given up listening to the messages. Common decency no longer exists.

After letting my mother know I arrived home safe and sound—Yeah, right—I explained that I needed some time before I got into the details of the trip and turned the ringer off. I’m half surprised she hasn’t parked herself outside my door to fight off the photographers. I text her every night before bed giving her a short synopsis of my day.

Too bad Corey isn’t around to hear all the messages and see all the men ogling me. Maybe then he’d believe I’m beautiful and sexy. As for me, I don’t need a man to validate me. At least one good thing came from this disastrous situation. I woke up and saw what I really look like.

He has called, not that it matters. He and Francesca have both called and texted a bunch of times. Francesca has been apologizing on repeat, and Corey keeps asking when we can get together to talk. But I've heard all I ever want to hear from him.

I've been ignoring Francesca too. Mostly because of the way she looked at me when she found out I was with Tim. She should’ve told me who he was then and there. I can only imagine what she thought when the shit hit the fan. And the last thing I want to hear is, "I told you so."

For now and the foreseeable future, my nights are spent on the couch, drinking wine and flipping through the stations on TV. I try reading, but I can't focus on the words. Not to mention, all the books I have are romances. I don’t want to read about someone else’s happy ending when I don’t get one of my own. Any relationship from here on out will be met with cynicism and distrust.

Bottom line, I've ceased living. I just exist. When the sun rises, I trudge through the day and wait for sunset. When night comes, I do what I can to make it through until the morning comes again. Each day, I wake up and repeat, going through the motions.

I’ve lost track of how long it's been since I've seen or spoken to Tim. Unless I take thirty seconds to think about it. Then I know three weeks and five days have passed. Twenty-six days. Almost a month.

I need to forget him. I'm trying. It's been three days since I last pulled his image up on the Internet. It’s been reported that he and Siena broke up. I stalk his social media sites to see if there’s any truth to the rumors. His last public comment was that he had a big announcement he was looking forward to sharing. That was just before the wedding. Just before he upended my life.

If I happen to make it through the day without crying until my eyes are swollen and red or wanting to cut my heart out of my chest, I go and dream of him. I hate that no matter how sufficiently I occupy my mind during the day, my subconscious betrays me with thoughts of him when I am a prisoner to my dreams at night.

Knocking at my door startles me.

"Bailey, it's me." My stomach tumbles at the familiar-sounding deep voice. "Please, I need to know that you're okay."

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