Page 93 of Beautiful Enemy

But he’s not here.

I sit up. There’s no clock, but judging by the light, it’s late. I reach for my phone on the bedside table to see if he’s texted.

He hasn’t.

But there’s another slate of messages.

Callie: WTF is going on?

Followed by a link.

Confusion crowds into the worry as I click the link she sent, waiting for the article to load.

Feminist DJ Caught with Businessman She Trolled: Was It All a PR Stunt?

It’s by the reporter I met in person here in Ibiza. I barely have time to process that before the photos load.

The first is of me in the booth at the club last night. It’s my wig, along with my gold dress, and I look powerful. It’s the kind of shot clubs want for their promotions, that makes people groan they missed out on the hottest party and line up for next week’s tickets.

The second photo is darker and harder to make out.

A woman, seated on something dark and out of frame, her dress high enough to expose her legs. Legs wrapped around a man in an untucked dress shirt, his dirty-blond hair and sharp bone structure visible in profile.

His hand is fisted in her hair, the other on her hip beneath the edge of the gold dress, just visible beneath the jacket wrapped around her shoulders.

They could be fucking. He could be deep inside her the moment this image was taken, his grip on her helping him chase his release.

Except they’re not, because they’re us. Harrison and me in a moment I never imagined being captured by another person. But the photo was taken last night at the club.

As I read the article, my breath comes so shallowly I might as well not be breathing at all.

The text cites an incident at his LA club this week. Plus, a list of issues at his other properties.

My lips tremble.

He said it was getting better.

And I trusted him.

Every line of the article guts me more than the last. It doesn’t outright call me a slut—which would’ve pissed me off but not hurt. Instead, I’m a hypocrite. I called out the man running the show only to cave to him, let him control me, at the first opportunity.

That’s not what this was.

Unable to stomach any more, my face throbbing in earnest now, I click out of the story.

The final text message rips my heart in half.

Callie: Tell me you’re not with that man. Did he hurt you? Pressure you?

I shut off the phone and head to the closet and grab one of Harrison’s dress shirts, slipping it on.

I slowly turn the door handle and step silently into the hallway.

There are noises downstairs, and suck in a breath. “Harrison?”

Natalia appears at the doorway of the kitchen, looking worried. “Señorita. Toro went to take him from the police station hours ago.”

“Take him where?”

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