I scoffed and carried on walking down the little narrow walkway, looking for an exit door, which would lead me to outside or inside, or anywhere that was away from him. “I can’t even stand to look at you right now,” I retorted, shaking my head. Seeing it in person was ten times harder than seeing it in the newspaper.

“You can’t even… what?” he repeated, jogging to catch up with me. “What are you talking about?”

I scowled in his direction, wishing I could somehow hurt him the way he seemed to be able to hurt me so effortlessly. “Just leave me alone!” I snapped.

He practically growled in frustration as his hand closed over my wrist. I was yanked to a stop and he shoved open a door at the back of the workshop, stepping in and dragging me inside with him. “What the hell have I done now? For fuck’s sake, I don’t get you sometimes, I really don’t. One minute I’m showing you around, the next you’re storming off and are mad at me! What the hell did I do? Clue me in; give me a little sodding hint to this one, huh?” he ranted.

“You and Miss Shorts-up-her-arse, tits-around-her-neck, blonde Barbie doll lookalike out there!” I practically screamed. “I’m not going to stand around and watch while you hook up with that girl right in front of me!” I shook off his hold on my arm.

His eyebrows shot up. “Hooking up with her? What the…?”

I groaned in frustration, wanting to grab the nearest thing and smash it – unfortunately, the nearest thing to me was him, and he was too big for me to pick up and throw. “Oh, don’t play dumb, Carson. I’ve seen it all before! I’m not going to just stand there and pretend I’m okay with it while you shag her like you do all those other girls!”

“Other girls? What on Earth are you talking about, Emma?” he asked, looking at me like I was crazy.

I scowled. Is he really going to deny all this? Does he think I’m stupid? “The girls, Carson! The ones from the papers. The models, the singers, the dancers!” I spat sarcastically.

His brow furrowed as he shook his head slowly. His eyes bored into mine as he spoke. “I think you’re confused about something.” I opened my mouth to shout at him to stop lying to me for once in his life, but he cut me off by speaking first. “How many girls do you think I’ve been with in the last three years?”

I gulped as an acrid taste seemed to burn in the back of my throat. “I really don’t want to play this game with you!” I huffed and tried to push past him so I could leave, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to a stop. He was glaring at me.

“This isn’t a bloody game, Emma! This is our lives, and you’re making this really ruddy difficult!” he shouted, making me flinch because of how loud his voice was and how close he was to me when he did it.

I growled in frustration and ripped my wrist from his grasp. If he really had to tell me how many girls he’d fucked in the last three years, if it was really that important I know, then I guess I had to play the game like a good little fiancée! “Two fucking hundred?” I retorted, clenching my jaw, waiting for his answer.

His mouth dropped open in shock. “Not even close,” he muttered.

“Five hundred then?” I spat venomously.

He sighed and shook his head sadly. “Seriously? That’s what you think I’ve been doing for the last three years? Screwing anything that moves?”

I closed my eyes and tried not to let his sadness get to me. He was trying to hurt me with this conversation. I knew that. There was no other reason except to rub into my face I was nothing more than one in a long line of girls he’d screwed – I just so happened to be the only one he got pregnant.

“Just tell me the number then if you have to.” I tried to keep my voice emotionless, as my heart broke a little more. I silently wondered how one person could live through so much heartbreak but still survive it only to have it happen all over again the next day. There had to be a limit on how much pain one person could take before they just died from it. I must have been close to that limit now.

He took a deep breath before he answered. “Three.”

I nodded, trying not to show a reaction. “Three hundred girls. That’s awesome, Carson. Good for you,” I said sarcastically, clapping my hands in fake applause as I stepped back to get some personal space but bumped into the wall behind me.

“Not three hundred! Three!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the wall next to my head.

My mind worked furiously to take in the word. I must have heard him wrong; he must have said something else. That just couldn’t be right. Three? How could that be possible? He was Carson Matthews; he was rich and famous and was with pretty swimwear models all the time in the papers. How could that be true? I looked up at his angry face. His eyes were locked onto mine, his jaw clenched tight as he glared at me, daring me to challenge what he said.

I gulped. I needed to check I heard him right. “Three?” I whispered, not trusting my voice to speak.

He nodded stiffly, stepping back and running one hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “And that includes you.”

“But h-how? Three? But… but… the photos in the paper… the girls…” I shook my head, not sure I could make myself believe him.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as his eyes narrowed in anger. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read. Most of those photos are friends, or friends of friends. I go to a party on the beach and the paps somehow manage to take a photo where it looks like it’s just me with a load of girls. I talk to someone in a club or ask a girl for the time and immediately she’s my date for the night. None of it is true, Emma. There have only been three girls since I met you.”