Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(62)

With a sickening, sinking feeling, I finally doze off. A ping of my phone awakens me. I snap open my eyes and bolt upright. I glimpse the time—4:45 a.m.—and then go straight to my emails. My pulse sounds in my ears and my chest tightens against my breastbone. It’s from Brandon! And marked URGENT in the subject line. My heart beats so hard, I can barely breathe. With a trembling finger, I open it.

I have no choice but to terminate your employment contract effective immediately. I expect you to honor your non-disclosure agreement and share nothing you know about my personal life with anyone, especially the media. If you fail to do so, I will be forced to take legal actions that will result in costly litigation.

Please remove all your personal belongings from my premises as quickly as possible. Good luck with your future endeavors.

—Brandon Taylor

The words collide in my head like bumper cars, my emotions coming at me from every direction. So out of control, I hyperventilate. It takes all I have not to faint or vomit. I feel like someone’s taken an ax to my heart and hacked it. Oh the pain! The guilt! I did it to myself. I fell for him! No, I fell for his f*cking act! The bastard! I hate him! But I hate one person more. No, not Katrina. Myself. Self-loathing mixes with self-pity. I allowed him to make me his f*ck toy. I submitted. How na?ve and gullible could I be? All along, there was never anyone except Katrina. Devastation devours me in a single gulp. I hit delete. Finally, another, more powerful emotion sets in. Sorrow. The tears finally fall. My greatest love has become my greatest loss.




Five numbing minutes later, my bag is packed. That’s because I’m taking virtually nothing with me. All the stunning outfits, including the lingerie and accessories Brandon bought me, are staying behind. Maybe some hotel housekeeper will find them and enjoy them. Play dress-up in them and have her own Prince Charming fantasy that I hope will come true.

Battling my tears, I arrange for a flight home. The ticket is ridiculously expensive, but I don’t care. I put it on my credit card. It’s departing at eight a.m.

My hotel phone rings, and the voice of the concierge lets me know my driver is here. Do I need help with my bags? I tell her no and that I’ll be down in a few minutes. My mind and heart distraught, I decide to write Brandon a note. It’s more for me than for him. I need closure and some semblance of dignity. Sitting down at the desk, I take a sheet of the hotel’s signature écru stationary and put a pen to it. Tears blur my vision.

Brandon~

This is goodbye. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you. The guesthouse will be cleared out by the time you get back to LA. You can be sure I will honor our non-disclosure agreement and treasure our time spent together.

I will always remember you. You’re unforgettable.

~Zoey ?

By the time I add the heart, a regrettable afterthought, sobs are wracking my body. With quivering hands, I fold the letter and slip it into an envelope before my tears blotch it up. I cannot bear to write the words again.


With my roller bag in one hand and the letter in the other, I stagger out of my hotel room. At this wee hour in the morning, the elevator comes quickly and descends without stops to the lobby. While last night it was bustling, the lobby at this hour is all but deserted. Wheeling my bag, I trudge to the front desk. The lovely lady who checked us in is still there. This must be the end of her long shift. She’s as cheerful as ever.

“Ah, bonjour, Mademoiselle Hart. Can I help you?”

“I’m checking out.”

“Oh? Was everything okay?”

“Y-yes.” I stammer, thinking of something that will explain my puffy, bloodshot eyes. It comes to me quickly. “I have a sudden emergency at home.”

“I am so sorry to hear that. Would you like me to call a taxi to take you to zee airport?”

“Thank you, but I’ve arranged everything through the concierge.”

A smile of approval curls on her face as I set my letter to Brandon on the counter. “Would you be kind enough to get this to Monsieur Taylor?”

“Bien sur. I’ll have someone leave it under his door.”

“Thank you very much.”

With relentless, pulsing pain, I head to the hotel entrance.

Au revoir, Cannes.

Au revoir, Brandon.

Au revoir, forever.