𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

0. | PROLOGUE

❝We cross the line with silent signs.❞

●

GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT.
LATE JUNE, 1982.

When she told Gene of her plans to go to Miami, his jaw grew taut and his cheeks turned a violent shade of burnt red.

Diana's intentions hadn't been to anger him. It was shocking, really, to watch him shift and transform before her very eyes. From a slack, collected, nimble form of self-assurance lounging across her plush, cream-colored couch to a rigid, guarded figure standing in her foyer, shooting daggers into the darkness.

She sighed. Tonight of all nights.

Weeks of distance, courtesy of tours, recordings, and other schedule conflicts had finally ended, allowing the exceedingly rare chance for them to see one another. Gene tended to be both obliviously heedless and aloof, so she had been the one to close the distance, putting in the effort to plan and invite him over for an intimate dinner. An appetizer, lemony mushroom crostini, a salad course, an entrée of flank steak and chimichurri, and dessert, a lemon strawberry trifle, a recipe courtesy of her mother that was always a hit at family functions and holiday parties. Much like he had for her chocolate cake, Gene became an instant fan; he rose from the table with a crumb-filled mustache, a lopsided smile, and a slightly bulging belly.

She topped off the rest of the evening with the usual: music, wine, and smooth, casual conversation. If Gene's heightened charm told it true, it was that the evening was going on without a hitch.

Just moments before her fatal error, of course.

"Were you trying to butter me up? To make it easier when you told me?"

The swish of his hand wildly swiping along the wall echoed in the foyer. A few seconds into his struggle, the area flooded with light. The stark change made her flinch and she narrowed her eyes, pausing in her pursuit.

"Butter you up? Why would I need to do that?"

"You're going on vacation—with that kid," he accused.

This was one rodeo she was already familiar with. At some point in her life, she had been a spectator—more times than she cared to admit. Fewer times, she was the rider on the back of that bucking bull, too absorbed in her own need for answers or retribution to care about the well-being of anyone who had the misfortune of looking on.

However, this time wasn't like the others.

Now, she was on the back of a dawdling horse. Earlier, she had taken a careful itinerary and was sure the scene unfolding before her was least likely in a list of countless possibilities.

But she had been wrong. All wrong. Just as wrong as Gene who, visibly flustered, cursed aloud as he fumbled for his brown, suede dress shoes.

"No, I'm going on vacation with my kids," she replied, mindful of any hint of offense or reproach in her voice.

At first, Gene didn't look at her. His attention was angled toward the floor where, in a pointed motion, he jabbed the tongue of his shoe upward. Like a dark cloud bent for torrential rain, tension hung between them, overshadowing any delicate conversation or meaningful bond formed that evening.

"You haven't finished your drink," she said. She stood behind him, her glass of red wine in her left and his glass of sweet white in her right.

His response was as dry as her Sangiovese: "It was my third glass tonight. I think I've had my fair share."

He stood upright. Discontent was strewn across his features, represented in a heavy-browed scowl and a deep, bold flush. The rarity of the expression told her only one thing: this was far more serious than she could have ever imagined.

"I don't understand." She paused. "Let's say, theoretically, this was just a vacation for me and Michael. We've gone on trips together before. You never had a problem with them then."

"That was before..." His words stalled, sputtering to nothing.

"Before what?"

Razor-sharp electricity shot through her spine. A fizzle, the same fizzle she always felt when the topic of conversation shifted to him, was alive and well, coiling in the nape of her neck and along the slopes of her shoulders. She tried not to show it. She stood there, still and strong, deliberately strumming the chords of silent confusion.

Gene gave her a pointed look.

"He likes you, Diane."

She sighed, hopefully not as tremulously as she felt. "We established this before you and I started seeing each other. Of course he likes me."

"He loves you. I've seen how he looks at you. Have you seen the way he looks at you? Sometimes I wonder if—"

Before his mind could wander further, she interjected, abandoning the wine on a console a few feet away. "Gene, I'm not sure what you want me to say. Yes, he likes me. What does that have to do with whether or not I specifically planned this behind your back?"

"Playing coy was what made me fall for you but it's not always appropriate. Especially right now."

This time, her sigh was unbidden. "I'm going to Miami to give my girls the vacation I promised them weeks ago. I also know how much it would mean to them to see Michael even if it's unlikely considering how focused he'll be on getting some work done. How exactly is that playing coy?"

"You don't find anything troubling about going on a vacation with someone that's always nipping at your heels?"

"I'm going on vacation. Michael is going there to work on his album. I'm not sure what more I can say to make you understand."

She moved to help him with his coat. His shoulders tensed. She quickly decided against helping him at all, stepping away.

"He doesn't nip at my heels."

Gene scoffed. "We'll just have to agree to disagree."

"I guess you're right," she replied. "Since we're on the subject, have we also gotten to a point where we should be worrying about who's appropriate to vacation with?"

They had been "dating" since at least the latter part of 1980 and hardly–if ever–discussed being exclusive. She and Gene had simply just... been. Nothing complex, nothing overly complicated. Or, more specifically, monogamous.

Gene Simmons was a rockstar, one of the original trailblazers for Kiss. Monogamy, she was sure, hadn't been a thought in his mind since 1973–even when he had been dating Cher. Considering his own excursions across the world, oftentimes with his bandmates and a select number of women lucky enough to slip past security, his current edginess about her vacationing with Michael was laughable.

Despite earlier plain-speak, he didn't answer. He watched her with narrowed eyes and reached for his coat, his jawline more rigid than before.

"Be honest with me about one thing, Diane."

She fought the urge to fold her arms across her chest. "If you have a question, there's no need to beat around the bush."

"Fine." He deadpanned. "Have you fucked him?"

It was like being doused with a bucket of ice-cold water. "What?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, impatient. The words came again, this time with more fire, more intent: "Have you fucked him?"

She waited. Waited until he smoothed the collar of his coat, straightened his back, and sighed, running his hand along his face. Waited until he raised his head, mouth suddenly straight and thin in shameful apology. Waited until he let her come close, her soft, calm features belying what hung beneath.

"No," she said.

No.

It was her only answer.

It was also a lie.