CHAPTER TWO #2
“Wow. Did your butler teach you that line, or did you come up with it all by yourself?”
The mattress dipped as I sat awkwardly at the end of her bed.
She glanced down, avoiding eye contact. “Don’t worry. I’m used to disappointment.”
“You’re tenacious, Pip. Always have been,” I said, the words drawn from some concealed part of me. “Intelligent. Unapologetic. You’re extraordinary. You don’t require anyone’s validation. ”
For one unguarded second, her chin lifted, eyes wide with genuine surprise. Then—and I still have whiplash from how fast it happened—she lunged forward, grabbed my shirt with surprising strength for someone her size, and kissed me.
I froze. Before I could think, before I could remember all the reasons this was a catastrophically bad idea—
Something electric ignited at the base of my spine, sparking through my nervous system like a live wire dropped in water.
My body seized control while my brain was still spinning.
I kissed her back.
Not gently. Not properly. Not with the restraint I’d been taught was appropriate for a Sterling.
My hand slid up to cradle her jaw, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.
Her surprised gasp opened against my lips, and I took the invitation without hesitation.
Her fingers twisted in my shirt. My free hand found her waist, fingers splaying against the warm strip of skin where her shirt had ridden up.
My world narrowed to nothing but sensation: the softness of her lips, the subtle sound she made deep in her throat as my tongue touched hers, the way her body arched toward mine—unrestrained and more alive than anyone I had ever known.
Until…
A thunderous voice shattered the moment.
“Bryce? You ready?”
Gavin’s voice bellowed up the stairwell, and reality came crashing back with nauseating force.
My best friend. Her brother. The man who’d promised bodily harm to anyone who touched his baby sister .
“Oh God. I—Damn.” I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over her graduation gown. “I shouldn’t have—Pip. I apologize.”
Petra rolled her eyes, composure snapping back into place with terrifying speed. “Relax. No biggie.” Her voice was cool, dripping with sarcasm, as if it had all been a joke. “It’s not like you’re into me. I kissed you , Moneybags. It’s fine.”
We’ve never spoken about it since. Not once in seven years. I assume she didn’t tell Gavin—he would’ve taken a swing at me by now.
After all this time, it is impossible to hear this song without feeling the sensation of her lips on mine.
brINGG. brINGG.
The melody cuts off mid-lyric, ripping me straight out of the past.
Caller ID: Amanda Tenley. Her profile photo exudes polished confidence—pearl earrings, glossy blonde waves, and that serene, unbothered expression only girls raised on country club rules can possess.
I swipe to answer. “Hello, I’m almost ready. Just need a few—”
“You didn’t even notice, did you?”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“I moved out, Bryce.”
I stand up so fast my head spins, and suddenly I’m seeing the room with fresh eyes. Her bedside table is bare. No silk sleep mask. No crystal-studded charger. No glossy stack of Vogue .
I bolt to her walk-in closet and throw open the door.
Empty. Completely bare except for a few stray velvet hangers. The rows of designer dresses, the color-coded shoe collection, the Tiffany-blue jewelry boxes—all gone.
“I didn’t think you were serious. ”
“I’ve been waiting for your call for three days, Bryce.” Her voice hardens. “I warned you that at twenty-eight, I’m approaching my expiration date. My mother has suggested cryogenic egg freezing more than once. You are aware of what she calls unmarried thirty-year-old women in our circle, right?”
I wince, already knowing the answer.
“Unfuckable.” The crude word sounds wrong in her cultured voice.
“Amanda, I’m sorry.”
“Are you? Because if you’ve changed your mind, I can have my things moved back this evening. We can salvage this… hiccup.”
“No,” I say, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. “I’m not interested in marriage. Not right now. Maybe never.”
The silence stretches so long, I check to see if we’ve been disconnected.
“Did you ever love me, Bryce?”
There’s a sudden drop in my stomach. I should say yes. It would be kinder. Easier. But my silence speaks volumes.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” I say, the words sounding hollow in my ears.
“As your father always says, intentions are irrelevant. Results are what matter. I trust you’ll wait to announce our separation. Give me time to establish my next steps?”
“Of course.”
“Tell people I’m staying at the lake house to care for my mother. She’s had another anti-aging teenager blood infusion and neck rejuvenation.”
“Whatever you prefer. And, Amanda, I wish you luck. ”
“I won’t need it, having dated a Sterling now. When I find someone more deserving, I’ll let you know—might even save you a seat at the wedding. However, if you do come to your senses, you have my number.”
The call ends, leaving me staring at my darkened screen.
Amanda was precisely the type of woman I was expected to marry. Beautiful, polished, socially connected. The female equivalent of me—bred for a life of luxury and trained to keep up the facade.
But did I love her? Hmm . Since when did that matter?
I can’t think of a single couple in my social circle who are actually in love.
Before they divorced, my parents treated marriage like a business arrangement with occasional photo opportunities.
My father’s friends trade in wives as if they’re depreciating assets.
My mother’s circle views husbands as necessary accessories, like statement jewelry but with stock options.
Even Gavin—practical, focused Gavin—is marrying Fiona Whitfield to cement his place in Beverly Hills aristocracy. His new wealth paired with the Whitfield real estate old-money empire creates a power alliance that benefits them both.
Love means risk, and no one I know is willing to roll the dice on that. When it comes to duty or desire, duty always comes first.
And speaking of duty—I have a gala to attend.
***
I need some air.
Less than an hour into this party, and I’m calculating my escape route.
How many more politicians’ hands must I shake?
How many more soul-numbing conversations about market fluctuations and property values will there be?
My mother’s grand ballroom is suffocating—a sea of designer gowns, custom tuxedos, and practiced smiles.
“And where is that lovely girlfriend of yours?” asks the governor’s wife, Mrs. Harrington.
“Amanda’s at her family’s lake house. Her mother needed her assistance after a…
procedure.” The lie rolls off my tongue for the thirty-eighth time.
Each repetition digs the hole deeper, and I know when the truth finally surfaces—that Amanda left me because I wouldn’t propose—the gossip will spread through Beverly Hills faster than wildfire.
Her final revenge: leaving me to face the social firing squad while she licks her wounds in private. Well played.
I adjust my bow tie and slip out the back, leaving behind the glint of diamonds, the murmur of polite malice, and the opulent pretense of my mother’s charity gala.
The scotch burns my throat as I head past the tennis court. It’s quiet here—tucked behind a guesthouse, surrounded by manicured hedges and strategically placed greenery. The only place that ever felt remotely private growing up.
Which is ironic because the estate that glows behind me could have its own zip code.
My mother’s mini-kingdom is a monstrous testament to excess.
Staff living quarters, bowling alley, home theater, spa, gift-wrapping room, an indoor Greek-inspired pool, and a garage that could house a small dealership.
All guarded twenty-four hours a day by ex-military men in suits who report to my mother like she’s the head of Homeland Security .
I linger in the shadows, downing the last of my scotch. I’m debating whether to commit the social sin of getting a second drink far too early when something catches my eye.
A rustle.
Then a snap .
Probably just some raccoon poking around the perimeter. We get coyotes sometimes. Even a peacock once, thanks to Mother’s exotic pet phase. But then—
A human leg.
Then a body plummets from the foliage.
THUMP!
What the—
I scan for security, but the guards are stationed at the front entrance, where the guests and their million-dollar jewelry collections are clustered. None of the other partygoers have wandered this far into the garden. No one else has witnessed this breach.
“Hey!” I bark, voice sharp and immediate, instinct overtaking etiquette.
The intruder bolts upright and runs .
“Stop!” My glass drops and shatters on the stone path, but I’m already sprinting. “Security!”
They’re fast. But not faster than me. I gain ground as they dart toward the casita, feet pounding the pavement, dress shoes be damned.
I reach out and grab their arm.
Gotcha.
“Hands off, Rent-a-Cop!” a woman’s voice shouts.
A heel stomps on my foot. Hard .
“Jesus Chr—!”
Her elbow slams into my ribs before I can finish the curse. I double over, sucking in air.
Who the hell did I grab? Female John Wick?
I can’t see the intruder’s face under her hoodie-covered head, but she’s racing for the pool house entrance.
“Dammit,” I mutter, dragging myself upright and giving chase.
She reaches the door and yanks on the handle. It doesn’t budge. Locked. A string of muffled curses fills the night air as she slams a fist against the glass. Moonlight glints off the surface as she rattles the handle again, frantic.
Instinct kicks in. I don’t think—just react. Four years on the Princeton Prep wrestling team. Three Ivy League championships. That kind of muscle memory doesn’t vanish just because you trade in singlets for suits. If I can get this trespasser pinned until security shows up…