HONOR ME

TEN

SKYLER

The fire his fingertips had left behind was still burning, even after he was long gone.

He had barely touched me, yet somehow I had almost forgotten how to breathe.

I still hadn’t opened his gift.

Not yet.

I didn’t know why I was waiting, but I was.

Maybe I was scared to see what was inside.

Maybe I feared that whatever was in that box would somehow become a part of me.

A necklace?

A bracelet?

Something I would keep close?

The thought unsettled me.

Because the idea of cherishing something André gave me didn’t sit right.

I didn’t want his gift to mean anything.

I didn’t want to look at it and remember him.

I pushed the thoughts away, cleared the table, washed the dishes, and finally went upstairs to my room.

For once, Pamela didn’t lecture me.

She didn’t make a comment about my attitude or remind me of my responsibilities like she usually did.

She simply went to her room, probably exhausted enough to catch some sleep.

The silence was strange.

But I welcomed it.

I opened my laptop and typed one name into the search bar.

André Larsen.

The information appeared almost instantly, followed by countless images and videos.

New York Fashion Week.

Celine events.

Paris Fashion Week.

And so many other appearances I had never cared enough to follow.

I hated events.

The crowds, the cameras, the endless pretending.

I had attended a few because of Mother, but André, on the other hand, was a showman.

He loved the spotlight.

He loved the attention.

He belonged in front of the world.

As I continued scrolling, a column of related searches appeared.

Names I recognized.

People like my mother, Pamela McCarthy, and Albert Morgan.

Rhea Morgan.

Damien Davenport.

And many more celebrities and influential figures.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I clicked on Rhea Morgan’s profile.

The page loaded.

Rhea Morgan

Net worth: $46.5 million

Age: 28

Daughter of Albert Morgan and Cassandra Evans.

I recognized her immediately.

She was the woman from the pictures of André and another woman.

She was the woman.

What the hell?

Curiosity got the better of me.

I clicked on her i********: page and found myself scrolling through it like some obsessed fan.

**@rheamorganofficial**

That was her account name.

Over thirty million followers.

“Bloody hell,” I mumbled to myself.

Hours passed as I lurked through her page, interviews, and pictures.

I hated how invested I had become.

Eventually, exhaustion took over, and I drifted off to sleep.

---

The next morning, I found myself searching for something casual to wear.

I needed a break from the endless suits, dresses, and clothes Mother picked out for me.

Something that felt like me.

After getting ready, I drove to a nearby boutique.

The moment I stepped out of my car, a crowd started forming.

What the hell?

Before I could understand what was happening, cameras began flashing.

Pictures were being taken from every direction.

“What is going on?”

“Miss Skyler, how does it feel to be cheated on?”

A woman shoved a microphone toward my face.

“Must hurt, right?”

My eyebrows furrowed.

“What?”

Another reporter stepped forward.

“Miss Skyler, please tell us what’s happening between you and André. Are the two of you separating?”

My confusion quickly turned into irritation.

“What the hell? Get these cameras out of my face.”

The questions only continued.

“Are we going to hear about a divorce soon?”

“Are you serious right now?” I snapped. “Leave me alone.”

“Ma’am, please answer us.”

I looked around at the crowd surrounding me.

Then I sighed.

“No. I’m not divorcing André.”

The cameras continued flashing.

“He did something wrong, and yes, it hurt me. But mistakes happen. Stop judging someone’s entire life based on what you think you know.”

I scoffed and hurried past them, back toward my car.

I couldn’t even get my damn clothes.

Three minutes into my drive, my phone rang.

Mother.

I answered.

“Oh my God!”

Her voice immediately filled the car.

“You were on television.”

**ANDRÉ**

“No. I'm not divorcing André. He did something wrong, and yes, it hurt me. But mistakes happen. Stop judging someone else's life based on what you think you know.”

I chuckled as I watched the rest of the video.

Skyler was antisocial—that much I'd already figured out.

She probably said all that just to get the reporters out of her face.

The public, however, saw something completely different.

They saw a wife defending her husband.

“She loves you,” Dustin teased, cackling like a damn hyena.

“She hates me.” I swallowed the last of my vodka. “I've seen the way she glares at me.”

Dustin poured himself another shot and downed it.

“Ugh,” he groaned, twisting his face before breaking into a grin. “This is the good stuff, man.”

He patted my shoulder.

Dustin was a heavy drinker. Whether we were at home or the bar.

“You're gonna have to drive home, D,” I warned, even though I knew he could handle himself.

“I'm gonna find someone to take home. I'll text you boy.”

“Not your boy,” I muttered, pouring myself another drink.

I was supposed to pick up my *wife* today.

Instead, I chose to drink.

Rhea and I hadn't spoken since our little encounter.

The pictures were still making the rounds online, and the press was practically hunting me down.

Deborah Rooney, host of **Debbie Talk**, had tried reaching me through my manager for an interview.

I hadn't responded.

And I wasn't planning to.

My word against theirs?

That wasn't a game I intended to play.

A few shots later, I got into my car and started the drive to pick up Skyler.

Hopefully, she'd be at little Louis' place.

Then I'd finally have a reason to kill him once and for all.

━━━━━━ ✧ ━━━━━━

I killed the engine, stepped out, and adjusted my coat.

“Here we go,” I muttered to myself before ringing the doorbell.

This time, Skyler answered.

“Hello there,” I greeted.

Her outfit was...

Short.

Booty shorts and a fitted vest.

“What do you want?”

“Apparently, I'm here to pick up my wife.”

Realization flashed across her face.

Her eyes widened.

“s**t!”

She spun around and disappeared into the house.

I let myself in and quietly closed the door behind me.

“Oh my... um, André? You're here rather early.”

Pamela approached me with an awkward smile.

“Have a seat, son.”

She gestured toward the sofa.

The only reason I was early was because of my trip to Venice the following morning.

I had an early flight, and I needed a decent night's sleep.

“Water? Something to drink?” Pamela offered.

“I'm good, thanks.”

A few moments later, Skyler came back downstairs wearing black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater.

“Where's the suit?” I heard Pamela whisper.

The suit she'd looked absolutely miserable in.

I bit back a laugh and watched the exchange.

“I'm not wearing that.”

“You have to look presentable, Sky.”

She glanced at me, raising an eyebrow.

I lifted my hands in surrender, a lopsided grin tugging at my lips.

“See? He won't mind. Right, André?”

I hadn't expected to be dragged into it.

My neutral expression slowly turned into something more amused.

“I won't.”

Pamela chuckled in satisfaction.

“Alright, then. I guess you two can get going.”

I stood and headed for the door first.

As I stepped outside, I heard Pamela mumble something to Skyler before she followed me out.

“You were supposed to come later.”

“I have a flight tomorrow,” I replied. “Can't miss it.”

I unlocked the car and pulled the passenger door open for her.

“Turns out you *can* be a gentleman, huh?” she teased as she walked over.

“Are you getting in or not?”

She shook her head, plucked the keys neatly from my hand, and smiled.

“I'll drive, Mr. Larsen.”

He smirked as he watched me sashay toward the driver's seat.

“I can feel your eyes on my ass,” I said before sliding into the seat.

He got in beside me and shut the door.

“Would you rather feel my hands instead?”

“I swear I'll be nice.”

I couldn't help but roll my eyes as I started the engine.

“Not a scratch,” he warned.

“I'll try.”

━━━━━━ ✧ ━━━━━━

He shut the car door behind him, picked up my bag, and headed for the stairs.

“This isn't exactly new, considering you've already been here.”

“Shut up,” I snapped.

He chuckled and stopped in front of a door.

“This will be your room from now on. The rest of your clothes will be brought over this evening, just so you know.”

I stepped past him and pushed the door open.

The room was spacious, bright, and well-ventilated.

A queen-sized bed sat in the centre, dressed with crisp white sheets and impossibly fluffy pillows. One wall was lined with a built-in wardrobe, while a sleek dresser and a full-length mirror occupied the far corner.

“This is nice,” I muttered.

“It should be. We only keep the best,” he replied from the doorway.

“How many women have been in here?” I asked flatly.

My back was turned to him, but I could already picture the expression on his face.