Chapter 2Selling My Husband To His Stalkers

The voice was rough, laced with a heavy, gravelly exhaustion.

"Open the gate, Camille."

I stood paralyzed for two agonizing seconds before slamming my palm onto the release button. The heavy iron locks clicked open.

He walked in bringing the chill of the California dawn with him. He was hidden beneath a black baseball cap and a face mask, a grease-stained brown paper bag dangling from his fingers.

"Aren't you supposed to be flying to New York this morning? Why are you back here?"

He pulled off the mask and tossed the cap onto the marble entryway console.

"Changed my flight."

He walked the distance between us and held the paper bag out to me.

"Those almond croissants from that tiny French place in Venice Beach. Still warm."

I didn’t take it. My eyes were fixed on the heavy, bruised shadows beneath his eyes.

"Are you out of your mind? You drove all the way back up the hills at five in the morning just to drop off a pastry?"

A faint, tired smile touched his lips. He reached out, his hand brushing through my hair.

"It was on the way."

Venice Beach to the Hollywood Hills, while he was supposed to be at LAX. In no universe was that on the way.

I stepped back, dodging his touch, and took the bag. My fingers accidentally grazed the back of his hand. It was ice cold.

"Eat them before they get cold," he murmured, turning on his heel and heading toward the master bath.

I stood rooted to the spot, watching the broad line of his shoulders disappear behind the frosted glass door.

The water turned on.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened Telegram.

The chat was an absolute war zone.

[What the hell is going on?! The VIP terminal is completely empty!]

[Where is the insider?! Get out here and explain! How dare you sell us fake intel!]

The admin, StardustWes, dropped a barrage of furious emojis.

[Refund us right now, or I swear to God I'll hire someone to track your IP and dox you to the whole internet!]

[You messed with the wrong crowd, bitch. You're dead.]

I scrolled through the manic tags and death threats, a dark, cynical smile pulling at the corner of my mouth.

Wesley changed his flight without telling a single soul—not even me. His stalkers caught nothing but air, and naturally, my head was on the chopping block.

I didn't refund the money. I didn't type a single word.

The shower shut off.

Wesley walked out in sweatpants and a faded vintage tee, vigorously drying his dripping hair with a towel. He stopped, his gaze falling on the untouched paper bag sitting on the kitchen island.

"Why aren't you eating?"

"Lost my appetite," I said, my voice deadpan.

He paused, lowering the towel, and walked slowly toward me. He studied my face, his brow furrowing.

"Are you in a bad mood?"

I tilted my head up, meeting his gaze head-on.

"Wesley, we’ve been married for almost two years. Do you honestly think we still look like husband and wife?"

His jaw tightened. He tossed the damp towel onto a barstool.

"I've been slammed with production lately, Camille. Once we wrap this shoot, I promise, I'll take you to Iceland. We'll go see the Northern Lights."

Another empty check. Another hollow promise.

Every single time I tried to breach the wall between us, he used a vacation as a band-aid to push the conversation down the road.

I pushed off the counter.

"Don't bother. I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."

I turned toward the hallway.

A hand locked around my wrist, stopping me dead. His voice dropped an octave, heavy with a sudden, suffocating pressure.

"What is actually going on with you?"

I ripped my arm out of his grip.

"Nothing. I just feel like you're a million miles away. You're so far away that I don't even know what city you're going to wake up in tomorrow."

A flicker of something—guilt? frustration?—passed through his eyes.

"I thought you understood the nature of my work."

I stared at him, enunciating every single word.

"I do understand. Which is exactly why I never ask. Because when I do, all I get is a perfectly curated PR lie."

I turned, walked into the guest bedroom, and locked the door behind me.

I was violently jolted awake by the machine-gun vibration of my phone against the nightstand.

I squinted at the screen. Telegram. The notifications read 999+.

[Found him! The insider wasn't lying about the flight, Wesley just changed his schedule last minute!]

[A paparazzi account just posted pictures of him landing at O'Hare in Chicago last night!]

The admin's tone did a complete 180.

[Omg Insider babes, I'm so sorry we doubted you! Do you have Wes's itinerary for Chicago?!]

[Paying $5,000 right now for the name of his hotel in Chicago!]

I stared at the bounty. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Landing in Chicago last night?

He had walked through my front door at five o'clock this morning. It was physically impossible.

I minimized Telegram and opened Twitter.

#WesleyChicago was trending at number eight.

I clicked the hashtag. The blurry paparazzi shots showed a man in a black baseball cap and a face mask. The height, the build, the posture—it was a flawless imitation.

But I knew my husband's shoulders. I knew the way he walked. It wasn't him.

Wesley Kallan was deploying body doubles as decoys to shake his stalkers. And the real Wesley? He was currently asleep in the master bedroom, thirty feet away from me.

A cold, bitter laugh escaped my throat. I switched back to the stalker chat.

[$5,000 is insulting. Make it $10,000.]

The admin replied instantly.

[Deal. Send the location!]

I leaned back against the headboard, listening to the muffled sounds of footsteps in the hallway. He was up.

I opened Wesley's text thread.

[Mr. A-List, which hotel are you resting your head at in Chicago right now?]