She tilts her chin upward. “Do you really expect me to feel sorry for her? She catches your eye in a brothel, makes you fall in love with her, all the while sleeping with your son?”

I stare at her, shocked. How does she know all of this?

“You’ve got it wrong. She isn’t like that. She was never even working in that club.”

“Proof is in the footage, Sebastian, and I am going to go public with it. Unless you part with some of your precious money. Because, let’s face it, it’s only a matter of months before she takes it all in your impending divorce, anyway.” Her calculating eyes hold mine. “She doesn’t love you. She never did. Wake up, Sebastian, you fool.”

I clench my hands at my sides, my anger hitting a crescendo. I’ve never had so much contempt for anyone in my life. “Get out.” I sneer.

“Forty-eight hours.”

I step toward her, unable to help it.

She smiles sarcastically. “Hit me. I dare you.”

I turn my back to her because if I don’t, that’s exactly what I will do. “Get out.”

She stays still.

“Get the fuck out!” I yell.

The door clicks when she leaves, and I inhale with a shaky breath.

“Fuck, fuck… fuck!”

I pick up my phone and call Bart.

“Hi,” he answers.

“Get over here now. We are officially in a crisis.”

“Hello, Porsha?” Bart says. He’s on speaker phone with the manager of the sex club. “It’s Bart McIntyre calling. I’m a lawyer acting on behalf of a very high-profile client.”

“Yes, hello, Bart,” Porsha replies.

Bart glares at me. He’s furious, and so am I.

This is my worst fucking nightmare. I sit back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Please let me wake up.

“My client has just been delivered photographs of himself in your club with an Escape Girl.”

“What?”

“You heard me. There’s video evidence.”

She gasps. “Oh no…”

“He’s being blackmailed for ten million pounds. Do you mind explaining to me how the hell someone got this footage?”

“Um…” She pauses. “I’m so sorry. Our system was hacked three or four months ago and then again this week. We assumed they were after credit card details, but thankfully none of those were compromised.”

“I’ll tell you what was fucking compromised. My client’s identity!” he snaps. “If this goes live, I will be pressing charges against you to the full extent of the law. You can kiss your fucking club goodbye.”

“Oh my God!”

“How does this happen? What the hell do your clients get for their exuberant fees if not their privacy?”

“Ah…” She’s rendered speechless. “My sincerest apologies. I just don’t know what to say. We were assured by our IT team that nothing was taken.”

“They lied. I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up on her.

Speechless, I put my head into my hands.

“You know…” Bart begins to pace, he's furious. “When I asked you if you had any skeletons in your closet, the fact that you met April in a brothel may have been one of them, Garcia!” he yells. “How did I not know about this?”

“Watch your fucking mouth.” I growl. “You are speaking about my wife. She is not a prostitute. She worked there one time, and it was the fucking time I met her.”

“Do you have any idea what this is going to do to the political party?”

“I don’t give a fuck about the political party." I cry. "I’m not worried about myself. I couldn’t care less about my stupid fucking job. I’m worried about April! If this gets out…” I shake my head, the fear in me so present that I can barely push the words past my lips. “She will always be the prostitute who slept with the Prime Minister. She will never shake this. It will be the end of her career.”

He stares at me.

“Do you know how fucking hard she worked to fight her way back?” My voice cracks, betraying my hurt. “This can’t get out, Bart. It can’t. I won’t let it. I will not let her be portrayed in this manner. Not now, not ever.”

“Then you have to talk to April.” He sighs sadly.

“If I tell her, she won’t let me pay it. I know her. Her morals are too high, especially when it comes to my ex-wife. She would rather die than give that woman one penny.”

Bart closes his eyes. “Fuck’s sake.”

We both sit in silence as we think.

“What do I do?” I eventually ask.

“There’s no proof that, even if you do give Helena the money, she won’t go to press, anyway.”

“I know but at least it might buy me some time.”

“For what?”

“In case you missed it, I got married last fucking week, Bart!” I stand in a rush. “Do you really think this is how my new wife wants to spend her first week of marriage?”

“Stop putting everyone else’s needs before yourself. This is ten million pounds, Garcia.”

“I don’t care about the money.” I throw my hands in the air.

He holds his hand out in defeat. “Then, there’s your answer.”

I stare at him.

“You’re going to pay her the money, regardless of how stupid you know it is.”

“What do you want me to do? Throw my wife to the slaughter?” I lose my temper. “Get out!” I bark. “If you have nothing more to say, get the fuck out.”

Bart exhales heavily. “This is a bad idea.”

“Tell me the alternative? Give me a better fucking plan, Bart. Because as of this moment, you’ve got nothing.”

He stares at me, thinking. “What if I barter her down?”

“How?”

“I’ll email her. Tell her you can’t get that amount of money. Ask if we could we negotiate a deal of sorts.”

I scratch the back of my neck in frustration. I don’t want to give this bitch a single penny.

“At this point, she’s clutching at straws. She would have no idea that you’re willing to pay. I’ll tell her we have someone who can prove the photos have been manipulated and are fake—that she isn’t going to get any traction with this story. I’ll try and get her to agree to a few million and sign some kind of assurance that she won’t go public. Ten is ludicrous. It’s out of the question.”