For some reason, I cling to that information, guarding it like a precious stone. I know I can trust Tamara, so I’m not sure why I hesitate, but I have so much else to tell that I don’t dwell on it.
By the time I’m done, I feel like I’ve been talking for as long as I can remember.
“Artem brought me back to L.A.,” I continue. “And then… well, he married me.”
“He what?” Tamara asks. Her eyes go wide, but not just with surprise. There’s another emotion in there, too—something I can’t put my finger on.
“It was a marriage of… convenience, so to speak,” I explain, trying to pretend like that admission doesn’t hurt me deeply. Like that little spark of hope I’d been nurturing never existed.
“Did he force himself on you?” Tamara asks. “Because so help me God, if he did, I will slice his cojones
