The VIP Package (The Jilted Brides Honeymoon Club #2)

Chapter 1

CAMILLE

“ H e should be here any minute.”

I glance at my watch, then turn from the full-length mirror in the bathroom of the Multnomah County Courthouse. Facing my two dearest friends, I give them a shaky smile. “How do I look?”

Tears fill Sara’s pretty brown eyes. “Beautiful.”

“Gorgeous.” Eve steps forward and touches my boob.

Wait. Not my boob.

“You’ve got a button undone.” She fastens the white starburst at my breastbone. “Whoops, there goes another.”

“Goddammit.” I glare at the runaway buttons, annoyed with myself for not having this altered. “I might’ve picked wrong.”

Eve frowns. “The dress?”

I did mean the dress, but now that she says it, that’s not the only thing feeling a little bit off. “Is it a bad sign Hayden’s late for our wedding?”

“I don’t think so.” Sara hands me the tiny seed pearl veil she helped me pick at a Portland boutique yesterday. “I’m sure he’s just tied up in court.”

That’s the reason we’re doing this here, today. Hayden’s filing ex parte motions with two different judges; one at ten, one at two-thirty. It’s efficient to squeeze in our simple, no-fuss ceremony between them.

Eve slips a safety pin from her purse. “Want to try this for the buttons?”

“No, thank you.” With my luck, I’d stab my own tit right as I utter I do . “I just want to get this fucking thing over with.”

“That’s the spirit.” Sara props her butt on the edge of a not-very-clean sink. “Nothing says passionate romance like getting it over with.”

A toilet flushes and a sleek-ponytailed attorney in a tailored gray suit strides out of a stall. She picks up her briefcase and nods as she passes. “Congratulations,” she says. “Steer clear of the third courtroom on the left. Convicted felon with a bride fetish.”

“Uh, thanks.” I watch as she walks out the door, then turn to my friends with a grimace. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

The fact that neither one argues should clue me in. I already know I made an impulsive choice.

No. Not impulsive.

I’ve dated Hayden Marx since grad school. He was a young, up-and-coming attorney as I was finishing my post-doc training in marriage and family therapy. We got along well and cycled through typical milestones of moving in together and building careers. Getting hitched was never a priority.

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” I straighten my gold and pearl choker. “Hayden and I have been through a lot. We share a house, a car, and a Netflix account.” It sounds like I’m making a case I don’t totally buy. “It was time to shit or get off the pot.”

“Beautifully put.” Eve looks at her watch and winces.

Sara bites her lip. “Why don’t we go see if Trent or Kit has heard from Hayden?”

“Good idea. Kit’s in the cafeteria.” Eve glances at me. “I can check in with him and grab us some snacks.”

“That’s okay.” For once in my life, I’m not really hungry. “But feel free to grab yourself something and see if he’s heard from Hayden.”

“Trent’s in the garden.” Sara offers a halfhearted smile. “Probably checking for terrorist activity, but I’ll go see if he’s spotted him.”

“Good plan.” I like the idea of sending out a search party. Perhaps my friends’ partners can track down my groom. “He shuts off his phone when he’s talking with judges. Maybe ex parte ran long.”

“I’m sure that’s it.” Sara gives me a hug, then slips out of the bathroom with Eve on her heels.

At the door, Eve pauses. “Text if you need anything, okay? Anything at all.”

“Will do.”

As soon as they’re gone, I take a few moments to gather myself. This isn’t the first time Hayden’s been late. If I had ten bucks for each time he’s arrived on time for a date, I’d have…ten bucks?

Roughly.

It’s not that he doesn’t care about me. It’s that he cares for his career a whole lot. Which is fine! It’s great. We clicked in the first place because I admired his ambition; his drive to be the best.

It’s the same trait he loved in me.

I remember the year he made partner. It was the same year I launched my own practice and appeared regularly on Brooke Braham’s podcast. Yes, the Brooke Braham.

We’ve been colleagues and friends since grad school, and you’re damn right I cashed in some professional capital to take my own practice to the next level.

Brooke urged me to do it. She supported my goals every step of the way.

Which makes me feel guilty she’s not here today.

Most of my family and friends couldn’t make it.

This wedding came together so fast. Less than a week between Hayden’s heartfelt, “we should take advantage of this marital tax loophole,” and me admitting that I did kinda sorta maybe harbor a few teensy-weensy schoolgirl fantasies of being loved, honored, and cherished forever.

So what if we’ve only had six days between, “I can squeeze it in at lunch Thursday,” and me standing here wearing an organic cotton Windsor dress with waifish eyelet lace and ladder trim that itches a little?

And fucking buttons that won’t quit popping open.

“Dammit.” I shove two of them back through their holes, poking my boob with a fingernail. “Ouch.”

Snatching my phone off the paper towel holder, I scan for new texts. Just one from my sister, Courtney, asking if she should bring the flowers to the bathroom or if I’m coming out.

That’s it. I’m calling Hayden. After six unanswered texts, it’s time to be worried.

My betrothed picks up on the second ring. “Camille, hey.” Cutlery clangs in the background, maybe a glass being set on a table. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Uh, where are you?”

“Portland City Grill. John tipped me off they got fresh scallops this morning from?—”

“You’re at lunch.” The bottom drops out of my stomach. “Scallops.”

“Want me to order you some?” There’s some muffled chatter as he calls for a waiter. “They were almost out when I got here, but you know they always save extra for VIP guests. If I order now, they can box them up for you to have tonight while I’m working late on the Clauson case.”

I command myself to take a calming breath. To think before speaking. What would I tell a client to say in my shoes?

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

Not that.

“Babe?” He’s chewing something, probably the focaccia I love. “You okay?”

“We’re supposed to be getting married .” I’m trying hard not to shout. “Noon at the Multnomah County Courthouse, remember?”

“Oh shit. Oh, honey, I’m—” He takes a second to swallow whatever he’s eating. “Was that today?”

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Fuck my life.

Calm, Camille. Stay calm.

We can still save this. “How soon can you get here? Maybe Judge Wallace can shift things around. His next trial isn’t until one-fifteen, right?”

“I doubt I could make it, even if I walked fast.” Swear to God, I hear him take another bite. “Besides, scallops don’t reheat well. It’s silly to let them go to waste.”

That’s the moment I know I’m not getting married.

The moment I know my relationship is done.

Screw the shared mortgage.

Screw the Netflix account.

Screw thinking Hayden Marx is meant to be my husband.

“You’re right, Hayden.” I sound eerily calm, which might be another bad sign. “This wedding was a bad idea.” If I say this next part out loud, it’s done for. “So is our relationship.”

“Hold on, just give me a sec.” He mumbles to someone in the background. “Camille? I have to go. One of the junior attorneys has a question about?—”

“Enjoy your scallops, Hayden. Enjoy your life .”

I hang up before he can protest. To be honest, I’m not sure he would.

A strange mist of calm settles over me. I’d probably tell a patient it’s shock. What I tell myself instead is that our honeymoon’s booked through the same company Eve used for hers.

The one with a trade-in system for brides whose weddings get cancelled. A sex club that caters to scorned women’s desires.

Calm as can be, I scroll to the icon for the Jilted Brides Honeymoon Club.

It’s a private island near the Caribbean that’s devoted entirely to female pleasure.

Eve went a few months ago and regaled me with tales of “consorts” fulfilling guests’ wildest fantasies.

From bondage to threesomes to pirate roleplay, you name it, it’s probably on the menu.

No joke, there’s a menu .

It’s not terribly hard to switch my reservation.

There’s some kind of glitch that’s showing my dates as greyed out, but no matter.

The system allows me to book a deluxe room.

I’ll make calls from the airport, maybe fill out these forms on the plane.

Good thing I just had all my bloodwork done for the wedding.

Two clicks later, I’ve uploaded a copy of my squeaky-clean STI test results.

In another five minutes, I’ve swapped out two honeymoon flights for one last-minute ticket to the island closest to Crystal Bliss Retreat. Did Eve say there’s shopping on site? I’ll buy a few summer dresses there, maybe some sunblock.

There’s makeup and shampoo in my gym bag, maybe a swimsuit from when Sara and I went paddleboarding. Hopefully some extra panties, or maybe I won’t need them where I’m going.

By the time I climb into an Uber, I have a fully formed plan. There’s just one thing left, and I feel like a jerk for handling it this way.

I pull up the group text called “Strumpets.” My chest squeezes tight as I skim my last messages with Sara and Eve. They’re all about details for the wedding that won’t happen, but I push aside any sad feelings. There’s no time for that now. I fire off a text that makes it all real.

Change of plans. Hayden stood me up for the last time, so I’m headed to Crystal Bliss. Count me in as an official member of the Jilted Brides Honeymoon Club.

“Hello?”

I’m clutching my lopsided gym bag as I stroll through the empty-ass lobby. My voice bounces off a big marble welcome desk gleaming beneath a crystal chandelier. Bell carts stand polished and empty, but there’s nobody manning the concierge desk adorned with three orchids in pots.

This is weird.

“Anyone here?”

My voice echoes in the cavernous space. A two-story waterfall splashes cheerfully into a pond filled with colorful koi. Pots of lush ferns line one wall and floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the pools and the sprawling, white-sand beach beyond that.

An empty white sand beach.

“Where is everyone?”

I can’t imagine they’d close a whole freakin’ resort. This place employs five dozen consorts, plus bartenders, aestheticians, chefs, and personal trainers. My research psychologist brother did a study here several months back, so I know what goes into running this place.

Which means they couldn’t just shut it down.

“Did I miss some zombie apocalypse?” I follow the signs to the spa, which appears to be right off the lobby.

My sensible wedding sandals tap cool terracotta tiles as I make my way down a dimly-lit hall.

The flowy cotton dress billows behind me as I pass a big fan by the elevators.

Not for the first time, I’m grateful I picked such casual wedding attire.

To the undiscerning eye, it’s just a regular white sundress to wear on vacation.

Now I just need the vacation.

Rounding a corner, I move past another big waterfall with a pond.

This one’s lined with smooth river rock and delicate plants sporting pink-spotted leaves.

A stocky green parrot sits perched on a branch with no cage in sight.

It has a bright yellow beak with a pink throat and neck, and its curious eyes track my path down the hall.

“Hi,” I manage, just being polite.

“Hello!”

“Aren’t you pretty?” I continue past.

The bird tilts its head and squawks. “Cunnilingus.”

“No, thank you.”

There’s a thump from a room to my left. A sign on the wall says the spa’s to the right and the laundry facilities are straight down the hall.

Another loud clang suggests someone’s behind the closed door on my left. I pivot and reach for the handle.

“Hello?” I push it open, dragging my gym bag with me. “Anyone here?”

It’s some sort of boiler room. Big metal tanks huddle against dark concrete walls. Pipes snake the ceiling, forming a path that leads God knows where. I’m probably not meant to be here but screw it. They’re the ones who left the lobby unattended.

“Hello?”

Heavy footsteps thunder from somewhere down a long hall before there’s a crash and some heavier stomping.

Then a door flies open and in strides a man in blue Armani.

He’s impeccably groomed, with a gray silk tie and sleek silver sideburns at his temples.

Onyx and platinum cufflinks gleam at both wrists and the shoes on his feet are a high-polished crocodile leather.

He’s incredibly handsome with that older-guy swagger I so often see in a zaddy.

Icy blue eyes lock with mine, then narrow in fury.

“Who the fuck are you?”