“Is Abigail there? Put me on speakerphone,” Sloane demanded.
“She has the same state of mind. Mai tai-ed, oiled up, and will agree with everything you say.”
“What does Sloane want?” Abigail muttered, her face down on the table.
“To destroy my blissful massage.”
“Speakerphone, Jules,” Sloane demanded. “Don’t make me call the concierge and have them tap me into the bungalow’s surround-sound speakers.”
That wasn’t an idle threat. Jules would bet on Sloane every time. “Jeez. One second.” She tapped her screen and extended her arm, holding the phone toward Abigail. “You’re on speaker, ruining our romantic couples massage.”
“Here’s the deal,” Sloane said. “Mason is milking this whole sob story—”
“Sob story?” Abigail jerked up and propped onto her elbow. “Did you saysob story?”
Never in a million years did Jules think Mason would do this to her. Then again, he was a commodity. The machine that ran their lives had a product to save. Production studios had invested millions in him. They wouldn’t simply let him be the cheater. They would spit-polish his tarnished image.
What would happen if anyone ever found out the truth of their relationship? Her stomach turned. She couldn’t tell a soul—yet she’d told Rhys. Her stomach flipped again, not because she blabbed to her bodyguard, which was insane. He’d burned her before under the guise of her security. But because Sloane was asking for more than Jules knew how to give that man.
“Now you’re listening,” Sloane said. “We have to get in front of the narrative and drown him out. This is a PR war.”
The masseuse moved to her other leg.
“War is a strong word.” Mason didn’t have to be the enemy.
“Should I get Margot on the phone also? Maybe Viv Maddox?” Sloane asked. “Because trust me. Outside the land of fruity drinks and couples massages, there’s a battle of images getting ready to explode.”
“Don’t do that.” Margot and Vivian were as cutthroat as Sloane. They each specialized in vastly different sectors, but their knives were equally sharp and calculating.
“You have two ways to do it. One is wrong. One is right. But in the end, it’s your choice. Keep your head down and let the gossip machine churn, chewing you up and spitting you out.”
Would it be so bad for it to spit her out? She had financial security, stability. Her life would be safer—even her stalker would applaud that move. He wanted her to retire. Jules could use time away. But that meant Mason had chased her away when he’d agreed to their marriage to keep her safer.
“Or,” Sloane continued, “you play your cards right, rebounding with a fake relationship with Rhys.”
“Ugh.”
“Think about how much better that would be than marrying Mason. One hundred percent fake. No so-so sex—”
Jules groaned. “I should never have told any of you the sex was mediocre.”
“I believe you said it scratched an itch,” Abigail added. “So-so butmostlybetter than getting off alone.”
“Mostly,” Sloane emphasized.
Thank God for her mai tai buzz, because Jules wanted to die of embarrassment.
Abigail laughed.
“Margot is on board,” Sloane said, returning to the business at hand. “Titan is on board—”
Jules jerked up and glared at her cell phone. “You asked Rhys already?”
“No,” Sloane admitted. “I’m not a total bitch. I had his boss sign off on it before I approached you.”
“I think you should do it,” Abigail announced.
“Yeah!” Sloane cried. “Two—or three if you count Viv—to one. We win. You have to do it.”
