Chapter 26
BIX
“You’ll love the Caroline,” Milo says as our limousine pulls up to a valet wearing pressed white shorts and a chest-hugging white T-shirt.
“It’s where anyone who matters in Saint-Tropez comes to see and be seen.”
Through the car window, there’s a low, white structure built on blinding white sand, with the azure Mediterranean beyond.
“I feel underdressed,” I whisper, tugging at the seafoam green cover-up Antoine selected. Beneath it, I’m wearing what might be the most revealing, yet also the most expensive bikini I’ve ever worn.
“Nonsense. You’re perfect.” Milo adjusts his oversized sunglasses, then whispers in my ear.
“Remember, you’re with Slayer. That automatically makes you the most interesting woman here.”
I nod as the chauffeur opens the car door. Then, as we rehearsed, Slayer and I make our limo exit together, holding hands.
This is a sandy driveway on a Saint-Tropez beach, not a glitzy club on Sunset Boulevard.
But a small posse of paparazzi who’ve been waiting at the valet stand approach, eager to grab their money shot.
I enjoy the way Slayer slips his arm around my waist as they snap our pictures. Then he surprises me by pulling me in for a juicy kiss, driving the paparazzi into a frenzy.
Once they finish with their couple shots, they call out in broken English for Slayer to pose alone. I step aside and watch as he indulges them.
He’s wearing dark linen pants and an open white shirt that reveals his tattooed chest. His ubiquitous sunglasses shield his eyes from the world—and the world from his thoughts.
One day, I assure myself, I’ll be getting out of a limousine with the boy toy of my choice. Or one my music producer has chosen for me.
When the paparazzi have had their fill of photographs, Sterling walks up to them, handing each a card. I know it contains a media kit and a ticket to Slayer’s concert on Sunday.
Then Sterling turns to lead the way to the hostess stand, his elfin frame looking quite dapper in a lightweight white jacket and white jeans.
A drop-dead gorgeous hostess materializes immediately. “Mr. Sterling, we have your table ready. The best view in the house.”
We follow her through a sea of beautiful people, their conversations quieting as we pass. I remember to keep the smile Milo stressed was so important.
Slayer does his part by resting his hand casually at the small of my back, guiding me forward. The touch feels possessive, performative. Is this the act, or him? Either way, my skin warms beneath his fingers.
Our table sits on a raised platform, overlooking the beach and allowing us to be seen. White linens flutter in the gentle breeze, crystal glasses catching the sunlight.
“Champagne to start?” The host snaps his fingers, and a waiter appears with an ice bucket.
“Dom Pérignon Rosé,” Sterling confirms.
“Of course, sir.”
As we settle into our seats, I take in the spectacle around us.
A DJ announces that the daily fashion show is about to begin.
At once, two models shoot out of nowhere, strutting between the tables. They stop every so often to twirl and pose.
But there’s not much to model—because each girl wears only a tiny string bikini bottom, an oversized statement necklace, and carries a designer handbag.
“So this is Saint-Tropez,” I say under my breath, sneaking a quick look at Slayer to gauge his reaction to the near-nude women.
But his face is unreadable as always.
My attention is caught by the closest model, a beauty with long black hair and regal bearing who draws appreciative murmurs from the crowd.
She wears an intricate gold bikini bottom, her perfect breasts adorned only with delicate body chains that catch the light as she moves.
I’m mesmerized by her confidence. Here’s a woman who owns every inch of her body and commands the space around her.
“I’m so happy you agreed to our campaign,” Sterling says to me, perusing the menu.
“The media already loves you, just like we planned when we created your persona’s prototype. You and Slayer project good chemistry together.”
“You think so?” I ask. I needed to hear those words so badly.
“When the cameras are on, you two shine,” Sterling confirms.
Whack. There it is. The truth.
“When the cameras are on...”
None of this is real. I have to remember that.
When the luscious-looking, three-tier seafood platter arrives on a bed of ice, we all dig in.
I’ve never tasted fresh crab leg before, and I experiment by dipping it first in butter, then trying it with a squeeze of lemon.
Just when I’m about to take a bite of lobster, a woman’s voice cuts through the multi-lingual conversations around us.
I turn to see a voluptuous lady approaching our table. Her blazing orange cover-up accentuates her long, dark, lustrous hair and considerable curves.
“Sam! I was told you’d be here,” she says with a strong, lilting Italian accent.
Sam? This woman knows Slayer from his Sam days?
My mind flicks back to our first encounter at the noodle place, where Slayer introduced himself as Sam.
He stands, and I watch as they embrace in recognition. “Valentina? My God, it’s been years.”
The music cranks up, making their conversation impossible to hear, even if I strain my ears.
Who is this Valentina? She’s at least thirty—maybe even older.
As I observe them side by side, I’m struck by their tall, dramatic, pseudo-vampire looks. Though they are different nationalities, their vibe is the same.
“Sterling,” Slayer says to the record mogul as they return to our table. “I’d like you to meet Valentina Vanelli, an old friend. Valentina, I’m sure you’ve heard of Sterling Records. This is Maxwell Sterling—he owns the label.”
I watch as they exchange greetings. Sterling calls to the waiter to add an extra chair.
But you hired me to play Slayer’s girlfriend, I feel like shouting.
Nonetheless, I remain silent as my rock star boyfriend blatantly flirts with this Italian vampire hussy. She slides into the new chair beside Slayer before anyone can object.
I glance at Milo, hoping he’ll notice and put a stop to this, but he’s too busy savoring the fresh lobster.
Valentina’s eyes finally settle on me, curiosity evident in their dark depths. “And who is this?” she asks.
Is it my imagination, or is she looking for a vulnerable part of my neck to sink those white teeth into?
“Bix Bismark,” Slayer says, his hand returning to my shoulder. “My girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. He could say the word with more conviction.
“Charming. American?” She’s looking at me like a pet, asking the owner its breed.
“Yes,” I manage.
“Valentina and I are old friends,” Slayer explains to the table. “She was an exchange student at my high school.”
“The only Italian girl in Connecticut.” She laughs. “It was torture. Though Slayer made it bearable, didn’t you?”
He looks at her a bit oddly, and I sense a history here I don’t understand, an undercurrent to their interaction that makes me feel like an outsider.
Then it hits me—Valentina was his first love. He said she never gave him the time of day in high school. That seems to have changed.
A waiter materializes with another Champagne flute and adjusts the place settings.
I take a long sip from my glass, suddenly grateful for its numbing effect.
“So,” Valentina says, leaning toward Slayer. “Tell me everything. How long have you two been together?”
“Not long,” Slayer says, but only after sweeping the room to ensure no reporters are within earshot.
“Almost a month,” I say simultaneously, remembering Milo’s media packet.
Valentina’s eyebrow arches.
Slayer’s jaw tightens. We’ve already managed to contradict each other.
“Well, it feels like forever.” I recover, placing my hand on Slayer’s arm and offering what I hope is a besotted smile. “Doesn’t it, darling?”
“Absolutely,” he agrees, playing along—for the moment, anyway. “Time loses meaning when you’re with the right person.”
Valentina watches this exchange with what seems like thinly veiled skepticism.
Our main course arrives, and the conversation shifts to safer topics: Sterling’s recent art acquisitions, Valentina’s refurbished villa here in Saint-Tropez, the upcoming film festival in Cannes.
Slayer contributes occasionally, but I notice his attention is increasingly drawn to Valentina.
The way she touches his arm when she laughs. The private jokes they share. The ease of long acquaintance.
I feel increasingly invisible—a prop in a scene where the real action happens between others.
As we finish the meal, I notice the fashion show has ended, and the model I was admiring before—now dressed in a saucy white server’s uniform—approaches our table.
“May I offer you the dessert selection?” she asks, her French accent lilting pleasantly.
“Actually,” Sterling says with a secretive smile, “we have something special planned.”
Before I can question what he means, the music changes.
A rhythmic, celebratory beat fills the air, and servers begin to gather.
“What’s happening?” I ask Slayer, who appears equally puzzled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ announces.
“Caroline is honored to host a very special celebration today. Please join us in wishing a happy birthday to Mademoiselle Bix Bismark, who joins us all the way from New York City with her boyfriend, the legendary Slayer!”
My stomach drops as a procession of servers approaches our table, carrying torches that shoot up toward the blue sky and a towering cake adorned with sparklers.
The entire restaurant turns to watch—and film the action with their phones—as they surround us, clapping rhythmically.
Sterling beams, clearly delighted by the spectacle he’s created.
Slayer’s arm goes around me. I feel a jolt of anger as I can no longer pretend it’s anything but for the cameras, for the show.
All for Sterling’s elaborate PR game.
“Happy birthday!” the crowd chants.
The heat from the sparklers matches the embarrassment burning in my cheeks.
This isn’t about celebrating me—it’s about creating a photo opportunity, ensuring that Slayer’s new girlfriend makes the gossip columns.
Again.