Under the orange glow of the streetlights, I flipped to page eight.
And there I fucking was.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was just as Claudia had described. Though the pictures were grainy, I looked as pale as a ghost next to Mateo, and slightly white trash when you factored in my tattoos and the fact that I was topless. You could even make out a bit of cellulite on my upper thigh.
This was a nightmare come true.
“What is wrong, Vera?” Mateo demanded when he caught up with me. “You’re not wearing shoes. Let’s get you back inside.”
He tried to put his arm around me to usher me back home, but he looked down and saw what I had gone loco over. It was just as well since I was too much in shock to explain anything.
He swore in Spanish and ripped the magazine from my hands. I was almost too much in horror and disbelief to pay attention to how he was feeling about the whole thing, but I couldn’t help but notice his face. I’d never see him so mad, ever. Even under the unnatural glow of the streetlamps, his face was turning dark red, his jaw so tense it really seemed he might bite someone’s head off. The magazine began to crumple in his hand.
I reached out and put my hand on top of his. “Wait. What does it say?”
He couldn’t even look at me.
“Mateo,” I said desperately. “Please. What does the article say?” When he still wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t break that trance he had seemed to go into, I yelled, “Please! It’s about me, I have a right to fucking know!”
Finally he blinked and turned his head to stare down at me, a strain of softness in his hard eyes. He swallowed and said absently, “It says…it says that I have been photographed on the Barcelona beach with someone who is not my wife. It says that we were spending a few days in the city and they are wondering if Isabel and I are getting a divorce. They added, if not, we will be after this. They didn’t mention Chloe Ann, thank god.”
“Is that all they said about me?” I asked. “That I was just someone that is not your wife?”
He stared at me, worried.
“Mateo,” I said, “I have a right to know. I can handle it. If you don’t tell me what it says, I’m just going to find it online and Google translate it.”
He still stared at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“Fine!” I said, and I turned and ran across the empty road over to the apartment. I was sure Mateo would have yelled at me to stop, but he was still standing there, staring at nothing, the magazine in his hand. He had gone catatonic with rage.
If it had been anything else, I would have stayed and helped him, brought him inside. But this involved me too much and I hated being lied to.
I burst into the apartment and opened up the laptop on the coffee table. I did a quick search for Diez Minutos and started clicking through the magazine, searching and searching until I searched for Mateo Casalles.
There it was, the first story to pop up, the picture of Mateo slapping my jiggly ass. And the way the search engine displayed the results, the story underneath it was the one I had read back in Las Palabras, the one of him and Isabel at the restaurant.
I breathed in deeply, my eyes flitting between the two stories, me with my tits hanging out, the skimpy bikini I got from H&M, all pale skin, wild hair and ink, playing in the surf with a man fifteen years older than her. Then there was Isabel with her elegant short blonde hair, mature yet beautiful face, classy dress, hand in hand with her sharp-dressed husband. I knew exactly how it looked, and therefore knew exactly how this would play out. I didn’t even need Google translate for that. I was the trashy young thing on the side. The homewrecking slut who broke up a marriage between an ex-football star and semi-royalty, leaving their younger daughter in the wake.
I was worse than the other woman. I was Jezebel, waiting to be thrown to the dogs.
I knew right there that we were doomed. We always had been.
The worst part was that this whole paparazzi thing caught me unaware. It wasn’t like Mateo was being called for interviews or had photographers normally following him around or fans outside his door. To me he was just Mateo, not this ex-football star, so I never even thought about any of that in our day to day lives. Only occasionally would something remind me of it, say a clip of the Atletico team on TV or on rainy days when Mateo walked with a slight limp. Otherwise, I had lived in a bubble, totally unaware that he was someone really important.
I sighed in frustration and steeled myself against what I was about to read. I clicked on the article about us and hit Google Translate up on the top.
It turned out that what Mateo said was more or less true. He just left out a whole bunch about me. Mainly, that I wasn’t just “some other woman,” but according to Google translate, a wanton young girl who seemed a very unlikely match for someone as respected as Mateo Casalles. They also added there probably wouldn’t be much respect for Mateo after this, though what older man hasn’t thought about having a mistress half their age.
These fucking magazines were just as bad as the ones back home. And though I sympathized with celebrities with the way they were treated on gossip sites, I still read the stories eagerly. I never in a million years thought I would be the subject of one of them.
The thing is, I wasn’t sure how many people in the country cared what an ex-football star got up to, but this magazine apparently did. Shit was about to hit the fan in a major way, if it hadn’t already, and I had no idea what to do to prepare for it. I was not only humiliated and embarrassed but goddamn terrified of what this would do to Mateo and I. I felt like my heart was receiving tiny fractures that would one day lead to a break.
Eventually, Mateo came back into the apartment. I turned away from the computer, numb to the core, and eyed him warily. The magazine was gone, probably in the trash somewhere, where it belonged. He looked as terrible as I felt, though it seemed the anger that had overwhelmed him had left and now he just looked lost and defeated.
“Vera,” he said, his voice hoarse, as he slowly came toward me. He dropped to his knees right in front of me, lacing his fingers with mine. He rested his head on my thighs for a few moments, eyes pinched together, breathing in and breathing out. He looked so small at my feet, so meek. It unnerved me deep inside, making me feel unstable.
He raised his head and his brow was wrought with sorrow. “I am so sorry, Vera,” he said softly. “You have no idea how sorry I am.” The way his voice cracked made my soul ache.
I gripped his hand tight. “It’s not your fault.”
“Yes it is,” he said. “I asked you to be a part of this.”
“You didn’t ask me to be a part of this,” I told him adamantly.
“Yes, I did. I wanted you to be a part of my life. I wanted…you. I never thought about the consequences, how they would affect you. I didn’t think much about anything. I was so caught up in finally having you, here in my life, by my side. I didn’t think.” He kissed my hand and gazed up at me. “I’m still not thinking. Vera, you make me mad, you make me crazy.” He shut his eyes again and spoke, his lips brushing my fingers. “Love is like a thief, it robs you of all thought and logic, and all you have left is a heart that you can only pray is strong enough to survive the rest.”
Goddamn it, even in the face of all this scrutiny, his passion never wavered.
“Please don’t leave me,” he said quietly, his eyes imploring mine.
Something inside me crumbled. “Why would I leave you?”
“Because,” he said slowly. “I can see it in your eyes. That you’re afraid.”