Knot Like Other Girls (Claimverse #3)

Chapter 1 – BELLA

CHAPTER 1

BELLA

T he crab on my plate looks like it's been through a wood chipper. Delicate strands of white meat are piled into a sad little mound, barely enough to feed a toddler. I poke at it with my fork, unsure if I'm supposed to eat the dark green leaf on top or if it's just there for decoration.

Across the table, Braxley is holding court, regaling his friends with yet another tale of his social media conquests. His voice grates on my nerves, each word dripping with self-importance.

"And then I told them, 'You simply must use this filter. It'll make your skin look absolutely flawless!' Can you believe it got over a million likes?" He throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing across the restaurant's opulent dining room.

I force a tight smile, trying to look interested. Inside, my stomach is churning, and it's not just from the weird crab concoction. All night, Braxley's been dropping hints about a "big surprise."

I'm not an idiot. I know what's coming, and the thought makes me want to throw myself into the Mediterranean.

A proposal.

From Braxley Worthington III.

The man who can't go five minutes without checking his reflection.

I take a sip of my champagne, wishing it was something stronger. How did I end up here? On some absurdly expensive island off the coast of Spain, surrounded by people who probably spend more on a single meal than I make in a month?

One of Braxley's friends, a rail-thin woman with more plastic in her face than my library card, leans forward. "Braxley, you have to tell us about your new skincare line. I hear it's going to revolutionize the industry!"

Braxley preens, soaking up the attention like a sponge. "Well, I don't want to give away all my secrets, but let's just say it involves rare caviar extract and testosterone extracted from albino male giraffes."

The table erupts in chatter. I stab at my crab, imagining it's Braxley's overinflated ego.

"Speaking of alphas," Braxley continues, gesturing vaguely toward the restaurant's entrance, "I had to get new security. Again. The last batch was just so... dreadfully dull. No personality at all."

I glance over at the hulking figures stationed near the doors. They all look the same—crew cuts, dark suits, sunglasses even though we're indoors. I should probably know their names, but Braxley goes through security teams like he goes through selfie filters.

"Yoo-hoo! Muscles!" Braxley calls out, waving his hand dramatically. One of the guards turns slightly, his expression unreadable behind the shades. "Be a dear and fetch me another bottle of Cristal. The '08, not that swill from '10."

The guard doesn't move. Braxley's face contorts into an exaggerated pout. "Hello? Did you hear me? Or are those steroid-enhanced muscles affecting your hearing?"

I cringe, feeling a pang of sympathy for the guard. "Braxley, maybe we should just ask the waiter?—"

"Nonsense!" He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. "That's what they're here for. To serve and protect. Emphasis on serve."

Before I can argue further, a waiter appears with a fresh bottle of champagne. Braxley claps his hands together like an excited child. "Oh, wonderful! You see, Bella? That's the kind of service I expect."

I mumble a thank you to the waiter, trying to catch his eye, to silently apologize for Braxley's behavior. But he's already gone, disappearing into the crowd of wealthy diners.

As Braxley pours himself another glass, chattering away about his latest sponsored post, I find my gaze drifting out the window. The Mediterranean stretches out before us, a vast expanse of inky blackness dotted with the twinkling lights of distant boats. It's beautiful, in a lonely sort of way.

For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to just... leave. To walk out of this restaurant, away from Braxley and his insufferable friends, and just keep going. I could swim out into that dark water, let it carry me away to somewhere quiet. Somewhere without hashtags or follower counts or the constant pressure to be "on."

But that's not an option. Not for me. Not with my family counting on this marriage to solve all their problems.

A burst of laughter snaps me back to reality. Braxley is in the middle of another story, this one involving a mishap with a fake tan and a white Armani suit. His friends are hanging on his every word, gasping and giggling in all the right places.

I try to focus on my food again, but my appetite is long gone. The crab sits untouched, its delicate strands now limp and unappetizing. I push the plate away, earning a disapproving glance from the woman next to me.

"Not hungry, dear?" she asks, her voice dripping with faux concern. "I suppose we have to keep our figures."

I force another smile, resisting the urge to dump my champagne in her lap. "Just saving room for dessert," I lie.

She nods approvingly, then leans in closer, reeking of alcohol and expensive perfume. "Smart girl. You know, when I married my Theodore, I was on a liquid diet for weeks. Had to squeeze into my mother's vintage Dior, you see."

"Sounds... lovely," I manage, trying not to grimace.

"Oh, it was!" She pats my hand, her fingers cold against my skin. I've never seen such smooth fingers without any lines around the knuckles, but here we are. "And I'm sure you'll look absolutely divine when it's your turn. Braxley has such exquisite taste."

Before I can respond, a commotion near the entrance catches everyone's attention. A small army of waiters is filing in, each carrying what looks like a miniature firework. They spread out around the restaurant, positioning themselves near the windows.

Braxley claps his hands together, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Ooh, right on schedule! Everyone, out to the terrace! Quickly now, we don't want to miss the show!"

My heart sinks as the other diners eagerly push back their chairs, following Braxley's lead.

This is it.

The moment I've been dreading all night.

I stand on shaky legs, smoothing down my dress–a slinky, sequined number that Braxley picked out. It's too tight, too revealing, nothing like what I'd choose for myself. But that doesn't matter. Nothing about me matters at this moment.

As we file out onto the terrace, the warm Mediterranean air hits me like a wall. It's thick with the scent of salt and flowers, tinged with the acrid smell of gunpowder. The sky above is velvet black, studded with stars that seem impossibly bright.

Braxley positions himself at the center of the terrace, preening as his friends gather around him. I hang back, trying to make myself as small as possible.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Braxley announces, his voice carrying across the crowd. "I hope you're ready for a spectacle unlike anything you've ever seen!"

On cue, the first firework shoots into the sky, exploding in a shower of gold sparks. More follow, painting the night in a dazzling array of colors. Oohs and aahs ripple through the crowd.

I watch, my stomach twisting into knots, as the fireworks form patterns in the sky. Hearts. Flowers. And then, finally, two giant letters.

B"OMG! Just saw the news! Are you okay??? Did Braxley really fight off nine gunmen with his bare hands???"

I stare at the message, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat. Of course she already knows about it. She lives on social media. And of course, it's been completely blown out of proportion.

Before I can reply, another text comes through. This one's from my mother.

"Bella, your father and I just heard what happened. We're so proud of how brave you were! And Braxley, my goodness, what a hero! This will do wonders for your engagement announcement!"

My fingers hover over the keyboard. What am I supposed to say? That their future son-in-law is currently throwing a tantrum because the hospital doesn't stock his preferred brand of organic, cruelty-free bandages? That the "hero" they're so proud of left me behind without a second thought?

In the end, I send back something simple.

"I'm fine. At the hospital with Braxley now. I'll call later."

I've just hit send when a commotion erupts from the direction of Braxley's room. His voice, somehow even whinier than usual, echoes down the hallway.

"What do you mean, stitches? Do you know who I am? I have a skincare video to film tomorrow!"

A harried-looking doctor emerges from the room, shaking his head. He spots me and makes a beeline in my direction.

"Are you with Mr. Worthington?" he asks, his voice low and strained.

I nod, bracing myself for whatever's coming next.

The doctor runs a hand through his thinning hair. "Miss, I don't mean to be rude, but... is he always like this?"

For the second time tonight, I find myself nodding in response to that question. "Pretty much, yeah."

He sighs heavily. "We've explained to Mr. Worthington that his injury is extremely minor. But he's insisting on plastic surgery consultation and demanding we admit him for observation."

I can only imagine the fit Braxley must be throwing. "I'm sorry," I say, feeling a strange need to apologize on his behalf. "He's... very concerned about his appearance."

The doctor's expression is a mix of disbelief and resignation. "Miss, I've treated actual gunshot wounds that were less dramatic than this."

A nurse appears at the doctor's elbow, looking frazzled. "Doctor, Mr. Worthington is threatening to call his lawyer if we don't give him a private suite. With a view of the ocean."

The doctor closes his eyes for a moment, as if praying for strength. When he opens them, he fixes me with a pleading look. "Is there any chance you could talk to him? Maybe calm him down a bit?"

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. The idea of me having any influence over Braxley's behavior is almost as ridiculous as his demand for ocean-view accommodations on an emergency room visit.

But I nod anyway, because what else can I do? "I'll try," I say, not bothering to hide the resignation in my voice.

As I follow the nurse back to Braxley's room, I can't help but think about how surreal this all is. Less than two hours ago, I was dreading a proposal. Now, I'm playing damage control for my "fiancé" who's having a meltdown over a scratch.

The universe, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor.

Braxley's room is a disaster zone. Gauze wrappers and discarded bandages litter the floor. The bed sheets are rumpled and half-hanging off the mattress. And in the center of it all is Braxley, perched on the edge of the bed, his phone held at arm's length as he examines his reflection.

"Bella!" he exclaims when he sees me, his voice a mixture of relief and accusation. "Where have you been? I've been going through hell here!"

I bite back a sarcastic response. "I was filling out your paperwork," I say instead, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. "How are you feeling?"

He lets out a dramatic sigh. "How do you think I'm feeling? Look at me!" He thrusts his phone in my face, the screen showing a zoomed-in image of his eyebrow. The cut is barely visible now that it's been cleaned.

"It doesn't look that bad," I try, knowing it's futile. "I'm sure with a little makeup?—"

"Makeup?" Braxley shrieks, causing a nurse passing by to jump. "I can't cover this up with makeup! They'll see the texture beneath! My followers expect perfection, Bella. Per-fec-tion!" He enunciates each syllable like he's talking to a child.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself why I'm here. Why I have to see this through. "Braxley, the doctors say you don't need to stay overnight. Maybe we should just go back to the hotel and?—"

"Go back?" He looks at me like I've suggested we swim back to the mainland. "Are you insane? I've been shot, Bella! I could have internal injuries! I could be bleeding into my brain right now!"

"You weren't shot," I say, my patience wearing thin. "The bullet barely grazed you. You're fine."

Braxley's lower lip starts to tremble. For a moment, I think he might actually cry. Instead, he pulls himself up to his full height and fixes me with what I assume is meant to be a stern look.

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation," he says, his voice low and serious. "This isn't just about me. This is about us. Our brand. How are we supposed to be the ultimate power couple if I look like... like..." He gestures vaguely at his face. "Like this?"

I stare at him, a strange calm settling over me. In this moment, with Braxley fretting over his "disfigurement" and our "brand," something becomes crystal clear.

I can't do this.

I can't marry this man. I can't tie myself to someone who cares more about his follower count than the fact that we were just in genuine danger. I can't spend my life playing second fiddle to a camera lens and a ring light.

"Braxley," I start, my voice steadier than I feel. "I think we need to talk about?—"

But before I can finish, the door bursts open. A whirlwind of Chanel No. 5 and hair spray sweeps into the room, and suddenly Braxley is enveloped in his mother's arms.

That private jet sure moves fast.

"Oh, my poor baby!" Mrs. Worthington wails, squashing Braxley's face into her ample bosom. "We came as fast as we could. Thank God we were at that retreat! What have they done to you?"

Mr. Worthington follows close behind, his face a mask of concern. "Son, are you alright? Do we need to call in specialists? I can have our family doctor flown in within the hour."

As I watch Braxley soak up his parents' attention, milking every ounce of sympathy he can get, I feel myself fading into the background. The Worthingtons cluster around Braxley's bed, fussing over him and demanding to speak to the doctor in charge.

I take a step back, then another.

No one notices as I slip out of the room.

In the hallway, I lean against the wall, letting out a shaky breath. The events of the night crash over me like a wave. The proposal. The gunshot. The chaos. Braxley's cowardice and subsequent meltdown.

And underneath it all, a growing realization. Something I've always known, but have always been afraid to acknowledge.

I don't want this life.

And I have absolutely no choice.