Chapter 28
BIX
“You look lovely,” Sterling says as I walk into the lobby that evening. I’m wearing one of Antoine’s choices—a dress I could never imagine wearing in New York.
“You’re not one for black eye makeup and silver tattoos like today’s young stars,” he’d said, adjusting the neckline. “You hearken back to an earlier era.”
I’d nodded dutifully, focused more on the big payout and my first evening glimpse of Saint-Tropez.
But now, catching my reflection in the polished marble floors, I feel the glamor settling over me like a spell, transforming me into someone I barely recognize.
“Slayer will be down in a moment,” I say, nodding a hello to Milo. But before I can explain further, Slayer emerges from the elevator in a perfectly cut suit makes my pulse jump despite myself.
Even though there are no reporters present that I can see, Slayer rests his hand on the narrow of my waist as he guides me to the limousine.
Sterling works his phone throughout the ride, making deal after deal, his voice both charming and demanding.
For a moment, I let myself imagine that Sterling’s talking about me. Not as Slayer’s fake girlfriend, but as a real artist he’s grooming.
In my fantasy, he’s negotiating millions for my performances, not dictating what I should wear to best complement Slayer’s image.
The car stops at a restaurant bathed in golden light. It looks like a movie set, all old-world charm.
A hostess shows us inside. Dark wood, crisp white linens, and the soft glow of candles create an atmosphere of timeless elegance.
But when we arrive at our table, my smile falters. There’s an extra chair.
My question is answered when Valentina sweeps in, wearing a crimson dress that clings to every perfect curve.
“Oh darling, so sorry I’m late!” she exclaims, distributing kisses like party favors, leaving sticky gloss on my cheek.
When she reaches Slayer, she murmurs something in French—a language they seem to have in common—that makes him smile that private smile I saw only once, in his apartment.
I’m seated to her left, with Slayer across from us both. Sterling’s orchestration couldn’t be more obvious.
“What’s she doing here?” I whisper to Milo, who’s swiping through what looks like an upscale dating app.
“Slayer wanted her to come,” he replies without looking up.
“But aren’t I supposed to be Slayer’s girlfriend?”
“Yes, and everyone knows it.” Milo’s eyes flick between me and the exits I’ve been cataloging since we arrived. “Are you upset?”
I try to stay calm, my fingers finding Keesha’s Ethiopian cross. It’s probably the only real thing about me tonight.
Across the table, Valentina and Slayer share another French exchange.
She laughs, her hand landing on his forearm and lingering there. Valentina fits here, in this polished world. I’m just playing dress-up.
Throughout dinner, I push seafood around on my plate, barely tasting the exquisite meal.
Valentina dominates the conversation with stories of mutual acquaintances, exclusive parties, and inside jokes that leave me feeling like an outsider at my own table.
Slayer contributes occasionally, his eyes finding mine across the candlelight. His expression unreadable.
“Remember that party in Greenwich?” Valentina asks him, her voice dropping intimately.
“That was a different lifetime,” Slayer replies, but there’s something in his tone that tightens my chest.
The photographers swarm us as we leave—Sterling’s perfect timing, of course. Slayer pulls me close, his fingers pressing into my hip with surprising intensity.
For a moment, I’m back in his apartment, remembering how those hands felt elsewhere. His breath catches slightly, and I wonder if he remembers too.
“One at a time, boys,” Sterling calls in English, while someone translates. I smile mechanically.
Slayer’s arm slides around my waist—all show, no warmth.
“Now we’re off to an after-party,” Sterling announces, gesturing for us to get into the car.
“Would you mind if I take a taxi home?” My voice sounds thin. “I’m not feeling well.”
“What’s wrong?!” asks Sterling.
“Just a mild headache. Jet lag. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“Get in, and we’ll drop you at the hotel,” Sterling says firmly.
I slide into the limo, already focused on my escape.
Ten minutes later, they drop me at the hotel and pull away with Valentina’s melodic laugh floating through the open window.
Once in my bedroom, I tear off Antoine’s creation like it’s burning my skin.
I change into black jeans, a simple top, and my long strands of pearls. No more ethereal Grace Kelly wannabe. Just me.
Then I head back downstairs. The Saint-Tropez streets feel alive at this hour. Tourists laughing. Late diners at waterfront cafés. The gentle lap of waves against the shore.
In the town square, I pause by an ornate fountain and raise my phone for a photo.
“Bix?”
I turn to see Paul.
“Hello. What are you doing here this time of night?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says with that adorable dimpled smile.
“Just finished a tense dinner. Needed to clear my head...”
“I’ll walk with you.”
We wander the narrow streets, the cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
Paul points out hidden treasures—a medieval doorway, a tiny chapel, and the local bakery that makes the best pain au chocolat.
“It’s the Saint-Tropez that tourists never see,” he tells me.
Next he stops at what looks like a closed storefront. “You have to see this place—best blues club in town.”
“It looks closed.”
“That’s the point. Come on, I’ll show you.”
The entrance looks like a high-end souvenir boutique. Merchandise branded with Saint-Tropez is displayed like fine jewelry in gleaming cases.
Behind the counter, girls wearing black cocktail dresses lean elegantly against the displays.
“What is this place?” I whisper to Paul. “A bordello?”
“Not exactly,” he says, leading me past the storefront, then through a velvet curtain and down a narrow staircase.
We emerge into something entirely different—a cavernous space where century-old stone walls and ancient moldings contrast with throbbing music.
Black velvet drapes the walls. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, magnificent and slightly precarious.
The mix of decay and glamor captivates me. For 2 AM, the place is packed. “This is the hour when Saint-Tropez really comes alive,” Paul says.
The crowd is a mix of what the tabloids call “beautiful young people,” wealthy older people, and artistic types who’d never make it past the velvet ropes at the beachfront clubs.
A hostess guides us to a tiny table near the front, complete with Tiffany lamp. The whole scene is like something from those old movies Hilary and I used to watch with Grandmother Lola when we were little.
“What would you like to drink?” Paul asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“You order for me.”
He says something in French to the waiter, who returns with tall glasses containing two ice cubes and barely a teaspoon of liquid.
“What is this? It smells like licorice.”
“Pastis. It’s what we drink in Saint-Tropez. We mix it with water like this.” As he pours tonic into my glass, the liquid becomes cloudy, almost opalescent.
I take a sip. “It’s delicious!”
On stage, a woman with smoky eyes and a voice like velvet sings Edith Piaf songs, gesturing expressively.
The crowd watches in rapt attention. When she finishes her set, the room is warm with appreciation.
Then the hostess reappears at our table, whispers something to Paul.
“I told her earlier that you’re a singer. She must have told the manager. She’s asking if you’d like to perform.”
“At this hour?”
“Why not? Of course, if you’re tired...”
“Sure, I’ll sing,” I say, feeling a second wind. “Tell them I’ll need the band to follow my lead.”
“They always do.” Paul grins. “It’s that kind of place.”
The emcee introduces me in rapid French, his voice rising over the murmurs of the crowd.
I step to the microphone. Time to show this crowd who I really am.
The pianist looks to me expectantly.
I lean down and whisper my selection. It’s a jazz standard my grandmother taught me years ago.
He nods, fingers finding the opening chords. I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me. When I begin to sing, it’s not for the crowd.
It’s for me. For Hilary. For the girl who dreamed of moments like this long before fake contracts and PR stunts complicated everything.
The room fades away, and for those perfect minutes, I’m free.