Chapter 23

23

I spent all day yesterday with the FBI and dealing with the business of being fake engaged to Stone. My dad's attorneys surrounded me—since mine are in LA—and Loomis was with me since he was there when I discovered the envelope. They promised to get a run on the prints and assured me that the LA office was going to question Terrance Howard.

I already know it's not him. I already know it's a copycat.

But since the FBI is in the dark about what Lenox or Vander have been doing, I simply nodded and thanked them.

After that, the rest of the afternoon was spent on the phone with my agent, manager, and PR company, devising a plan for being in this mess and then one for how to get me out of it.

Stone wasn't concerned. He said people in my industry get engaged and unengaged all the time. Married and divorced. The world hardly bats an eyelash when a celebrity does that. It's not a big thing.

He wasn't wrong, and I went to sleep alone in my bed with Stone across the apartment and very limited contact between us, feeling comforted by that.

That is, until I wake up this morning to a black box sitting on my bedside table.

For the longest time, I don't move. I don't even get up to pee or brush my teeth though Lord knows I need to do both. I simply lie in bed in the silence of the room, wrapped in heavy white blankets, and stare at the box like it's Snow White's shiny red poison apple. Beautiful and alluring, but ultimately deadly and fucking stupid to trust.

I tell myself it's fake, and I should just open it and get it over with. What kind of crazy asshole would spend real money on a rock for a fake engagement?

But then the voice in the back of my head pipes up, arguing that Stone never does anything the conventional way, and if it is fake, why undertake the cloak and dagger of leaving it on my bedside table when I'm asleep? It sure as hell wasn't there when I went to bed last night, so that means he snuck in here at some point to leave it for me. Why wouldn't he simply give it to me and make sure I know it's fake just like we are?

Fake rock for a fake engagement.

On and on the vicious cycle goes until I can't take it another second, so annoyed and frustrated that I let it—and him—have any sort of power over me. It's a ring, real or not, but it doesn't mean anything. That's what I tell myself as I sit up, draw my knees and blankets to my chest, and lift the small, black square box from its resting place.

Balancing it on my knees, I hold my breath and open the box only to wish I hadn't. My lungs empty of that breath I was holding, only to immediately refill with a sharp gust of air. A sob sticks in the back of my throat, and I snap the lid shut, wanting to chuck the box across the room. Out the damn window.

"Goddamn him!"

I clench it in my first, feeling the sharp edges dig into my palm, and flip the lid back open. The ring gleams at me, beckoning me with its beauty and softening me to it. Not to the man, but to the ring. It's not something I would have ever picked out for myself, but I absolutely love it to the point where tears pour down my cheeks, and I want it to be real. For me.

"Fucking bastard."

He got me a giant round diamond sitting in a nest of diamond and platinum petals held together by a band of diamonds twisted to look like the stem complete with thorns. A rose. He bought me an engagement ring made to look like a rose.

How dare he?

How dare he mess with me like that?

I point blank told him I didn't want to get my heart broken and that I didn't want him to buy me a ring, and then he goes and does this? I'm furious. Absolutely enraged.

Rose was smart to let Jack die in the freezing water. Think of the heartache and emotional warfare she saved herself from.

Snapping the box shut, I slam it down on the nightstand, only to see a slip of paper I hadn't noticed before floating to the ground. Clamoring out of bed, I pick it up and read it.

Be the thorns when you need to be and be the petals when you don't .

I hiccup a strangled noise and crumple the paper in my fist. That's what he said to me on the boat, and it's been my mantra since. What emboldened me and gave me confidence, he's now using as a weapon against me. Even if it's unintentional.

I toss the paper in the direction of the box and storm down the hall, only to remember he's working a twenty-four-hour shift and isn't home. I could text him a tirade, waxing poetic about all the ways he's a total son of a bitch and that I officially hate him, but my thoughts are too scattered and chaotic. I need to work them out first, and the best way I know how to do that is by writing them out. My mind works best when I'm writing music, and more often than not, I do that the old-fashioned way with a pen and paper.

Only I don't have any on hand since most of my stuff is still shoved into the various suitcases and boxes Loomis brought over the other night. Stone has to have something in his kitchen. Everyone has a pen and paper in there. I locate his junk drawer full of batteries and flashlights and stop dead when I come across a six-pack of condoms.

Bitterness clogs my throat, and I swallow, feeling it go down like a jagged pill. Of course he has condoms in his kitchen. He brings women home. He probably cooks for them the way he's cooked for me and then fucks them on the counter before he even does the dishes.

"Argh!"

I'm a boiling hot mess of lava. Slamming the drawer shut, I tear down the hall to his office. His office is big considering he's a doctor and not a lawyer or something businesslike. I start with his desk, going for the top center drawer, and finding… more condoms.

In his office?

It makes me wonder, and I give up my search for paper, as once again my curiosity wins out. I don't bother with his bedroom. For one, that's too invasive, even for me and my monster of wrath and destruction, and second, because it's his bedroom and he sure as hell has condoms in there. Probably a Costco-sized box along with lube, nipple clamps, and a vault of sex toys he's used on women who call him sir.

Despite my rage, the Tootsie Roll center of me couldn't handle seeing that.

Instead, I go room by room, opening drawers and searching furniture I know I shouldn't be searching. If he ever did this in my house, I'd kill him, no questions asked. But my search isn't in vain. I find condoms everywhere. Even in the front entry table like he's too impatient to get his dates past the door before he fucks them.

Like he was with me last week.

Stupidly, I'm hurt. And feel foolish. My anger slips into heartache and humiliation.

I haven't been with anyone other than him in the last two years, and he's only one of three lovers I've ever had. It wasn't that I was saving myself for him because I knew the score between us. It's just not so easy for me to find a lover when I was so emotionally invested in two out of the three. Not to mention, I didn't want a Hollywood fling or affair. I didn't want to be used by someone looking to increase their celebrity status. I did that once after Forest and it was awful.

Still the fucking good girl.

But I was simply another fuck to him. One of many by the looks of it. And we didn't use condoms because I naively trusted him.

My elbows plant on the entry table, and my face drops into my hands. I don't cry. The tears from the ring are all dried up. I simply give myself a minute, and when that minute is over, I go back to my room, strip down, and climb into the shower. Mason has a four o'clock home game, and I told him I'd be there for it. Thankfully, Stone will not be.

As the hot water cascades down on me, all my anger and bitterness turn mournful. I don't even know why.

Not fully anyway.

I was never supposed to give him pieces of my heart. That was the promise I made, not only to him, but to myself, and for the last two years, I believed I had kept that promise. Yes, I had feelings for him, and yes, those feelings were strong. But this feels different, and I hate it.

That ring has me all twisted up. It's confusing me. And it stops now.

As I get ready to go, I contemplate leaving the ring here and not wearing it. Or leaving it on his nightstand the way he did to me in a silent protest. But in the end, I slide it on my finger without looking at it or appreciating it in any way, vowing to treat it with total indifference.

He didn't get down on one knee and ask, and I never said yes.

This ring has no power. It's yet another prop.

I make it to the stadium, riding celebrity style in the back of a large black SUV with two burly security guards in tow. Immediately I'm whisked through security and up a private elevator to the suite floor, except before I can reach the suite, a tall, thin man with wiry hair and equally as wiry glasses intercepts me.

"Miss Monroe." He pants, his brow dotted with sweat, and my security guys step forward. One hand goes up, the other over his heaving chest, where he rattles his badge that says Albert Pussé, Event Coordinator for them to see. "I'm so glad I caught you," he continues once he's caught his breath. "I was just alerted of your arrival and rushed right up. We have a situation I'm hoping you can help us with."

Oh boy. I don't like where this is going.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Pus-sé?" I stutter over his name, nearly calling the poor man pussy instead of noting the accent on the e. Still, what an unfortunate last name.

"Amber Woods's people just called and informed us she's ill with pneumonia and can no longer be here today to sing the national anthem."

I have no clue who Amber Woods is, but that's not the point, or why he's telling me she has pneumonia.

Oh no. Please don't do it. Please don't ask.

"Since you're here, would you be willing to sing the national anthem for us? It would be such an honor for us and mean so much to the organization and the fans."

Fuck. Fuckety fuck fuckers. I can practically hear my agent and manager screaming NO! in my head .

I smile sweetly and say, "I'd love to help, but I'm not prepared for that. I haven't practiced the song."

"We have thirty minutes until the anthem. I'm sure that's enough time to run through it a few times. I remember you sang it at the Super Bowl two years ago and brought the house down. With your talent, I have no doubt you'll be able to do it again with a standing ovation."

I don't mention how the fans will already be standing since it's the national freaking anthem, but is he kidding me? That's one of the most difficult songs for an artist to sing. The vocal changes alone are a nightmare, and most people who do these gigs practice for weeks leading up to it.

"It's a nationally televised game," he exalts with a hopeful smile as if that'll sweeten the deal for me. Only I'm not looking for extra airtime right now, so it makes it worse.

"I have nothing to wear."

"You look beautiful as always and very Boston Rebels in your gold dress and red boots, but if you feel the need to change into something else, we have many options you can choose from."

"Uh. Well, um, I appreciate the offer, but I don't think?—"

"Everyone is so happy you're back home in Boston. And engaged to one of our Fritzes. We simply love you here. You have so many fans in the stadium, not to mention the large number of armed service members and children in attendance."

Goddamn him, he's good. A pussy he is not. All I wanted to do was unwind, have a few drinks, and possibly bitch to Wren and anyone else who would listen about the ring Stone gave me. Oh, and the condoms. I'd love to bitch about those too. Not sure I would have in the end because it's not a good look that I went through his house in search of them, but the option would have been nice .

"Do you need someone to sing the anthem? Can't the game start without it?"

"It's what's always done here in this stadium, and it would be unpatriotic if we didn't sing it."

I shift, my heart starting to beat faster. "What if you just drag out a few school-aged children onto the field to do it?"

"There are too many protocols to go through for that, especially when dealing with minors."

"Just play the music for it. You don't need an artist to sing it."

"It's how we do things in this stadium. Ownership is very firm on that. You truly are our only and best option. We need you, Miss Monroe."

I'm one hundred percent going to regret this. "Fine. Let's go," I grumble, not even caring if I sound begrudging about it because I am.

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

Immediately, he ushers me along, moving me back into the employee-only part of the stadium.

"If I squeak or crack or say the wrong damn word, I'll… well, I don't do diva or threats especially well, but I'll seriously be unhappy."

He smirks but quickly clears it. "Understood, miss. You just have to sing it. We have the music for you to listen to and practice with, and I have a sheet with the lyrics."

"You should tell your boss you deserve a raise, Albert. That was masterful manipulation and dealing. Now show me to the room where I can practice."

The moment I step onto the field, the natural grass crunching beneath my boots, and my name is announced through the stadium speakers, is when my nerves hit me in the chest. Before they had been chilling in my stomach, fluttering around, but mostly held at bay. Now they're in full force, making my hands shake and my knees wobble with panic attack quality anxiety.

The crowd cheers and whistles, and I force a smile on my face. I didn't let anyone know what I was doing. Loomis, Vander, Katy, Bennett, baby Willow, Sorel, Serena, Owen, Estlin, Rory, and others are up in the booth watching me walk out toward the center of the field, waving like I'm Mrs. America walking across the stage.

"Are you kidding me?!" I hear Mason's hoot from the sidelines, and I look over at him to find him laughing, with his hands on the top of his head, shaking in disbelief.

I give him a simple shrug and a wave because we're not only being watched but broadcast around the country. After that, I get myself mentally in the game—pun intended. I stand in the spot they tell me to, and when the instrumentals start through the earpiece in my ear and across the stadium, I close my eyes and picture the lyrics sheet in my head. My lips part and sound pushes past my lungs, and with it, my nerves dissipate as they always do when I get to this point, and I sing my heart out.

It isn't until I'm finished and walk off to hand the guy the microphone that I realize I was holding it with my left hand. The hand sporting the ring. The hand I held up by my mouth the entire time I sang.

God, what did I do?

As if echoing my thoughts, my phone starts going off like a series of grenades.

My manager calls me at the same time as Stone texts.

"Hey," I answer but quickly rush out, "Before you say anything, I know. But they cornered me, and the guy had a return strike for my every parry. Or however fencing metaphors go."

"Oh, I'm not going to yell at you," Carol says into the phone with a hearty chuckle. "You just put yourself out in the spotlight wearing your ring to sing the national anthem. Your album sales have already skyrocketed since your engagement was announced, but I bet my next paycheck they double after that move."

Ugh.

She continues talking, and I half listen as I check my message from Stone.

Stone: We have the game on in an empty patient room, and I just saw your impromptu performance. You were incredible.

Me: Thank you.

Stone: At least now I can tell people that my favorite attributes about my fiancée are her spontaneity and unpredictability instead of that she's a sexy pain in the ass. I'd say it has a better ring to it, don't you?

Fucking bastard.

"Carol, I'm sorry to cut you off, but can we catch up about this tomorrow?"

"Sure, doll. No worries. Go enjoy the rest of the game."

I disconnect the call, deciding that verbally eviscerating my fiancé is more important than sales and marketing strategies at the moment.

Me: I hate you. It's official. And I hate your ring too.

Stone: Glad you're wearing it, though. It looked beautiful on national television, future Mrs. Stone Fritz .

Me: I wish it would fit on my middle finger. Then you'd know how I feel about wearing it.

Stone: Nah, you obviously love it since you showed it off so much. The announcers loved it too. All the nurses and patients here as well. I told them my nickname for you and they all swooned.

Me: I'm sure it'll help you get laid.

Stone: My fiancée told me her legs were closed to me, so I doubt it unless she's willing to change that decree .

Me: I don't fuck players.

Stone: Good thing for me since you're at a football game surrounded by them. What's with the thorns, little rose? You're the one who went primetime with our engagement and the ring. Not me.

I sigh. He's right on that. We went from website photos to nationally televised.

Before I can respond, my parents call. I talk to them as I head upstairs, some of my anger about Stone waning. I have no right to it. He is free to fuck whomever he wants, just as I am. We're not in a relationship and never were.

Just before I enter the suite and the madness and uproar I'm about to face in there, I text him back.

Me: I'm sorry. I didn't think about the ring when I went out there. I shouldn't have done that.

Stone: I'm not mad, baby girl. I like my ring on my fiancée's hand where everyone can see it. I like everyone thinking you're mine. The only people who know it's fake are us. And I'm not planning to tell anyone.