Faking Forever (First Wives #4)(52)

Shannon sold out to the commercial end of photography. Because she came from an affluent family, she managed to book the occasional wedding. But her meals came from the stream of kids wanting their starts in Hollywood who were in need of reasonably priced headshots.

Somewhere in all of that she’d met Sam and was told about Alliance. She met with Lori for the first time when they discussed a marriage contract with Paul.

Stupid plan.

Well, except for the money. That part worked out rather well. Although she wasn’t sure it was entirely worth it.

She put aside her infant work and picked up her senior project.

Gritty stuff, nothing smooth and perfect about it. Even if she was taking pictures of beautiful people, she’d seized the moments their facades fell and real life crashed in. Then she framed the same subjects and added the filters they wanted . . . like her life as Paul’s wife, and then her real life when alone with her thoughts.

The striking contrast earned her honor awards.

And what did she do with it?

Shannon flew to Tulum to take pictures of a spoiled girl’s wedding. That was how she spent her independence.

In her defense, there wasn’t a way to take the images she’d managed in her college years after she became Paul’s wife.

She was the subject of speculation and gossip for years following their divorce.

Was that the case any longer?

There really was only one way to find out.

Shannon lifted herself off the floor and went to her closet.

The walk-in room housed all the finery one would expect of a woman who spent much of her time on the other side of the camera. She sifted through her jeans, designer, but nothing that had a logo that would scream money.

From her workout clothing, she chose a T-shirt with a cat and pulled it over her head. Next came a ball cap, and she tugged her hair through the back in a ponytail.

In her bathroom, she removed her jewelry and lipstick and looked at herself in the mirror.

Not exactly what anyone would expect her to be wearing.

With her camera bag in hand, she set the alarm in her house and walked out the door. Seeing her car, she stopped short.

Ten minutes later, Shannon rode in the back of an Uber to test her popularity. If she went unnoticed as she wandered the streets snapping photographs, then maybe her identity as the governor’s wife was truly behind her.

And she could see if she still had something else to give this world other than pretty pictures of people faking the perfect life.





Chapter Nineteen

Victor sat in a Starbucks on Ventura Boulevard with one eye on the door.

She’d agreed to meet him. Public place, no possibility of physical contact outside of conversation . . . not that Victor had any intention to touch anyone.

He caught sight of Corrie before she waltzed through the door. She walked up with a friend and was talking to her outside. With what looked like a breath of courage, Corrie pushed through the entry, scanned the room, and paused when she saw him.

Dressed in a flowing-sleeved shirt in pale yellow and white jeans that stopped just below her knees, she crossed the room, turning a few heads.

Victor stood as she approached.

Should he kiss her cheek? Pull out her chair?

She didn’t give him the option.

“Hello, Victor.”

“Good morning.”

She tugged her chair back and sat, removing the sunglasses hiding her eyes.

“Did you want a coffee?”

“No. I don’t,” she said.

Okay . . . He sat across from her and tried to find the name of the emotion floating to the surface of his feelings in that moment. Nothing came.

“Thank you for meeting me,” he told her.

Her chin was tight, her eyes scanning the room instead of looking at him. “I’m surprised you found time in your busy schedule.”

She was angry.

“I—”

“And you’re here on time? Do you know how many times you were on time when we were together?” she interrupted him.

He opened his mouth, didn’t utter a sound.

“Zero. Even on our first date you showed up ten minutes late.”

“There was traffic.” He regretted the words the minute they sputtered from his lips.

She dropped a hand on the table. His coffee jumped.

“You’re right, Corrie. Okay. I know I wasn’t the most attentive boyfriend.”

“Fiancé.”

“Right. Fiancé. There isn’t anyone who will argue against that.”

She lifted her chin, an indignant smile on her face.

“I’m not sure I deserved how you ended things, however. When did you know you didn’t want to be my wife?”

He asked the question because he’d asked himself the same one several times in the past three weeks. When did he start questioning his future plans with her? Looking at Corrie now, no longer feeling like he could place his hand on her arm, kiss the side of her cheek, take credit for the fact the men in the Starbucks turned to look her way, he saw her differently. She was beautiful, no denying that. Her stubborn jaw and curt attitude, however, when she was the one who had walked out on him, felt displaced. Adolescent, even. And yes, she was young.

“Once the newness of wearing your engagement ring wore off,” she told him.

“When was that?”