Incentive (Infidelity Universe)

Dinner passes in an aromatic haze of seared chicken, bacon-wrapped asparagus, and some sort of rice. I chew it but don’t taste it. I can barely maintain conversation amid the riot of my nerves. It’s not the speech I’m flipping out over. It’s the decision I’ve been putting off all night.

You’re going to make a sacrifice for someone else. You, Laynee.

I rest a hand over Decker’s on my lap and twine our fingers together. He glances at me with eyes of gilded brown. Eyes that caress me with the sensitivity and compassion of a man in love.

He hasn’t said the words, but he goes out of his way to express my importance to him, always touching me, humming tunes to my favorite songs, and leaving me random notes, like I love the sound of your laugh. You have a killer rack. I want you happy—and naked. You are my favorite scent. I choose you, and at the end of the agreement, I’ll keep choosing you.

I’m not big on labels, but I’m desperate to call this what it is. We’re in love, fiercely, completely, in an I-don’t-want-to-wake-up-beside-anyone-else-ever way. He’s the one. The one who will never hurt me. The one who will protect me from anyone who threatens me.

And he wants me to reveal my scars. Because he wants me to heal.

The thing is, if I do this, I’ll be doing it for him, not me.

It’s the little things, forfeiting tiny parts of yourself that have lesser value than the thing you’re trying to attain.

He’s what I’m trying to attain, and with him, I know I’ll heal. Without him, I have nothing.

When the lines of servers stream into the ballroom carrying trays of desserts, it’s my cue to step behind the podium. Adjusting the fur wrap around my upper arms, I move to stand.

Midway to my full height, I hesitate, bend at the waist, and touch my forehead to his temple. “I love you.”

My whisper brushes his ear before my brain catches up. Why did I just admit something so vulnerable in a crowded setting? My timing is horrible.

Flushed and uncertain, I turn toward the stage. His fingers catch mine and squeeze. I sigh at the flex of muscle in his hand. He’s an incredibly strong man, and his strength is amplified in the gentle yet indomitable way he cares for me. He’s my lifeline. Even if he’s not standing beside me on that stage, I’ll be connected to him at a depth in which I’ve never been connected to anyone.

Steadying my breaths, I don’t glance back at him until I reach the glass podium.

CHAPTER 22

LAYNEE

Decker sits twenty-feet away, forearms resting on the table, watching me with a complicated expression. He looks like I feel. Excited. Off-balance. Possessive. It’s as if we’ve discovered this huge incredible thing, and it’s so significant and rare that if I lose it, I fear I’ll never find it again. That horrible feeling, the torment that something or someone could steal him away, sucks the air from the lungs.

Reluctantly, I break our eye contact to focus on the tablet on the glass podium. The speech I prepared fills the tablet’s screen, and the words blur together as the weight of hundreds of eyes press against my skin.

You’re going to look fear in the face and make it your bitch.

When I finally speak, my voice is reedy and soft. I make it through the greeting, the thank yous, and the harrowing stats about abuse victims before I decide to abandon the script.

I shut off the tablet and set it to the side. Then I raise my head and find Decker in the audience. Back straight, shoulders squared, his entire bearing is at full attention. His gaze is so formidable and confident I mirror his posture, borrow his strength, and breathe a little easier.

No matter what happens, that man holds the banged-up pieces of my soul. He’ll hold all of me if I break down. He’ll catch me if I fall. And he’ll demand—in his surly, bossy tone—that I stand on my own feet again. I don’t have to do this alone.

“Domestic abuse can happen to anyone.” I scan the shadowy silhouettes in the crowd, wondering if there’s any women in the audience masking her own tragic story. “Money won’t protect you. Neither will prestige and fame. Abusers prey on those who love them, and their victims never escape the effects of the violence. It follows. It haunts. It never lets go.”

My fingers tremble as I touch the hooks on my shawl. “Violence comes in many forms—physical, sexual, psychological, emotional. The scars you can’t see are the ones that cut the deepest, hurt the most, and take the longest to heal.”

Sweat forms on my skin, and a feverish chill sweeps through me. I meet Decker’s dark eyes and unclasp the hooks on the fur wrap. Holding his steady gaze, I slip the shawl off and drape it over the podium. My heart races. My knees weaken, and a surge of panic spikes through me. I glance over my shoulder and find no one behind me or in the vicinity of the stage. No one can see my disfigurement.