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“Alma, block out those thoughts. Focus on work. And tonight, you find him, you talk to him face-to-face, and you make him speak to you. This time, he has to tell you everything. You need to know for sure!”

“Clem, do you really think they got married?” My voice cracks, and I feel the floodgates open again.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. All I know is that you love Vadim way too much.”

The hours drag by. I try to control the anger and the grief that threaten to overwhelm me. To remember my best friend’s precious advice. To smile politely at the investors, at my coworkers, at my boss. To remain professional and efficient until nightfall. No one seems to notice anything, so I think I managed to keep up the act. But inside, I’m completely lost, my stomach in knots, my thoughts in turmoil, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

I printed the offending article before walking to Vadim’s luxury hotel. I don’t really know why, but I felt the need to. Perhaps simply so I could throw it in his face as soon as I arrived. Or to keep him from denying it and trying to talk his way out of it. He can tell me whatever he wants; he can try to reassure me, or even attempt to turn the situation to his advantage—it won’t work. As long as I have this vile article in my hand, I won’t back down.

If he’s even there, that is…

The hotel butler has already seen me enter his outrageously luxurious lodgings a good thirty times. He greets me courteously, then opens the elevator doors for me. I reach the top floor with a weight on my chest that makes it difficult to breathe. I don’t know what awaits me, but I’m determined. I have the right to know. I deserve to know.

I quickly run a hand through my hair before knocking on his door. It’s ridiculous. Checking that my shoulder-length bob is smooth and neat should not be among my priorities right now. Just like I don’t know what possessed me to touch up my makeup before coming here. He dumps me, gets married five days later, and I burst into his suite, all dolled up.

Who am I? Where did Alma go?

I hear confident footsteps approaching the door. It’s him, without a doubt. He’s here. I can’t believe it.

“I need to talk to you,” I blurt out, getting straight to the point as soon as the door swings open.

I barely look at him. I don’t want to be distracted by his looks. I avoid meeting his steel-gray eyes, because otherwise I’ll drown in them. I just march right in, uninvited. He lets out a small grunt of surprise, or perhaps frustration, and I sense that he’s following me into the living room.

“Alma,” he says cautiously.

“No, this time I’m the one doing the talking. You listen.”

My heart is pounding, my gaze fixed on the floor. My number-one priority is not to cry.

Vadim doesn’t flinch. He waits for me to go on the offensive.

I take the piece of paper out of my purse and unfold it. After a brief glance at the photo of the “blissfully happy newlyweds,” I launch into my piece. Slowly. For now.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” I growl, handing him the paper.

This time, I make eye contact. His gaze leaves my face and comes to rest on the article. No reaction. He looks up, and his eyes meet mine, but I find it impossible to read his expression.

“Explain yourself!” I yell.

“What do you want to know?”

He leans against the wall, as calm as can be. And it infuriates me.

“What do you think I’m asking? Is it true or not? Did you put a ring on her finger?” I fume.

“No.”

“I don’t believe you! Where is she? Is she here, hiding somewhere, enjoying the show?”

I scan the room. He frowns and narrows his eyes, but remains silent. Convinced that May Sim is somewhere nearby, I dash like a madwoman toward the first bedroom. No one. Second bedroom. Still no one. Small sitting room, walk-in closet, office, and bathrooms: the same result. No one. I end up back where I started, slightly humiliated by my own stupidity and impulsiveness.

He hasn’t moved. Still nonchalant, his tall frame resting against the white wall, his hands behind his back. His legs are crossed, his gaze lowered to his feet. I hate him for being so patient, so detached. His gray eyes meet mine again, and his lips twitch, eventually forming a faint, embarrassed smile. There’s a hint of pity, too.

Oh, so he pities me now. Perfect…

“Maybe you should go,” he says quietly, but not unkindly.

“Vadim, help me understand,” I murmur, holding back my tears.