Incentive (Infidelity Universe)

Through all this talk about sacrifice, she hasn’t once asked me to give up a damn thing for her. It dawns on me with frightening clarity that I would forfeit, forgo, and surrender anything and everything for her.

I shift us into a sitting position, arranging her legs around my waist and hugging her chest to mine. “Before you start making offerings to me like I’m some kind of sex god, because…well, we both know I’ve earned that status…”

“Oh, brother.” She rolls her eyes, grinning.

I smile with her, kiss her lips, and let the humor drain from my face. “You’re going to make a sacrifice for someone else.”

Her gorgeous face creases in confusion. “Who?”

“You, Laynee.”

“I don’t understand.”

I lift her off my lap, clasp her hand, and lead her upstairs to the bedroom. A few weeks ago, I did something rash and irreversible, something that will make my petite beauty seethe with murderous wrath when she finds out. Knowing the outcome won’t be pleasant, I took the fearless-man route and put off telling her.

Every year, she hosts a charity event for battered women. It’s one of those exclusive dinner-for-a-cause affairs, where glamorous people pay fifty grand a plate to rub elbows, flash their fancy clothes, and bid on sports memorabilia, famous gowns and jewelry, and elite services. Held in Savannah, the event brings in hundreds of celebrities, paparazzi, and massive media coverage, all of which results in millions of dollars for victims of abuse.

The event is tomorrow night.

I release her hand in the bedroom and pull on a pair of workout shorts. She doesn’t know it yet, but we’re on the cusp of a raging argument. I won’t go into it with my junk hanging out like a target.

She follows my lead and puts on one of my t-shirts, watching me with tapered eyes. “What are you up to, Decker Gabrielli?”

I step into the closet and return with a garment bag. A couple months ago, the famous designer, Victoria Beckham, created a floor-length gown for Laynee, specifically for tomorrow night’s charity dinner. Laynee didn’t notice it missing from the closet the past couple weeks.

“What are you doing with that?” Her eyebrows pull together.

“Open it.” I lay it on the bed and step back, my pulse pounding in my throat.

She unzips the bag, and her hands slide over the black satin. I’m not a fashion guru, but the high neck and plain sheath style seemed rather drab and boring. But that’s not why I had it altered.

It cost me thousands of dollars at the best dress shop in Savannah. I’ve since learned that the price I paid for alterations was a small fraction of what the gown is worth.

She casts me a perplexed look and lifts the dress from the bag. I hold my breath.

As she turns it over to inspect the back, the blood drains from her face.

“What the—?” Her hands tremble, searching the seams. “No.” She gasps, whispers. “NoNoNoNoNo.” Chest heaving, she tosses the material on the bed and glares at it with horrified shock. “Where the fuck is the back of the dress?”

“It’s been sacrificed.” I step into her space, cradle her face in my hands, and hold her gaze with mine. “Sacrificed for something greater. Something extraordinary.”

Nothing is more extraordinary than her strength and survival. It’s time for her to wear her scars with pride, and there isn’t a better way for her to expose them than at a charity for abused women.

Her show of bravery will inspire her celebrity friends to donate more money to the cause. The media will celebrate her acceptance of her imperfections, and amid the overwhelming support, Laynee will finally heal.

I don’t realize until later how very wrong I am—about all of it.

CHAPTER 20

LAYNEE

Oh God, this can’t be happening. I jerk away from Decker’s touch and pace the bedroom. A feverish chill engulfs my body, and a lump the size of Georgia lodges in my throat.

“You destroyed my fucking gown.” I can’t believe it. I’m staring at the backless sheath of satin, and it still doesn’t seem real. “Ninety thousand dollars, Decker. I paid ninety thousand dollars for that dress.”

“Try it on.” He cocks his head, his voice infuriatingly calm. He doesn’t get it.

“Fuck you.” I storm toward him, pointing a shaky finger at the bed. “You fucking ruined it!”

“Your reaction has nothing to do with the damn dress and everything to do with fear.”

Fear? I know fear. I’ve been carrying it around for six years. Fear that a director will demand I do a scene with my back exposed. Fear that I’ll have a wardrobe malfunction in public, and one of my scars will show through. Fear that my imperfections will be leaked to the media, and the hateful world will body-shame me into an early grave.

This isn’t fear. It’s raw scorching anger, burning through my veins and depriving my lungs of air. My ears ring. My stomach coils, and tears saturate my eyes.