CHAPTER THREE
PETRA
GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER
Me: Soooo I may have neutered Bryce.
Cam: WAIT? WHAT!
Katie: What did you do??
Me: Elbow. Balls. Direct contact. Long story.
Me: ?Dios mío! That’ll get a guy’s attention.
Katie: Gavin’s gonna disown you. You should start practicing the phrase “Hi, I was once a Brinkman.”
Me: He can get in line. All I know is RIP future baby Sterlings—they died doing what they loved: absolutely nothing.
I’M FUCKING MORTIFIED.
Like, cram me in a cannon, aim for the sun, and blast me into another galaxy.
This never-ending day keeps finding new ways to suck!
Behind Bryce’s perfectly tailored Armani-clad shoulders, I’m skulking through his mother’s mansion like the world’s worst cat burglar.
We’ve invaded a kitchen plucked right out of a Nancy Meyers wet dream—gleaming copper pots, marble everything, and wicker baskets bursting with overly photogenic fruit.
The kitchen staff is in wealthy-people-feeding mode, operating as a well-oiled machine. White-gloved hands arrange tiny cucumber squares topped with what I’m guessing is caviar, but let’s be real, my reference for fine dining is gas station sushi.
I look behind me to see one chef is using tweezers to place microscopic flowers on a cracker the size of my thumbnail. What is this? Food for ants?
The moment I turn back, I plow into a waiter carrying a tray of fancy desserts.
SMASH! CRASH!
Every single person in the kitchen halts mid-action, eyes now on me. Bryce tosses a glance over his shoulder so disapproving that I almost explode into flames.
“Are you incapable of keeping a low profile?”
“Sorry. I’ll try to channel my inner duchess.” I lick the frosting off the sleeve of my jacket. “Ah, splendid! The sugar-to-cake ratio is simply divine. Do carry on, my dears. Everything looks marvelous.”
That earns me a chuckle from… no one.
Yep, reminder number 435,701 why Bryce “Suave, Sophisticated, and Stuck Up” Sterling would never go for Petra “Forever Fuck-Up” Brinkman.
I pick up my pace as he leads me into the tightest hallway I’ve ever seen. If I breathe too hard, I’ll scrape paint off the walls.
“What is this? A secret mistress tunnel? Do I get to see what goes down at your mom’s rich-people ragers? I bet it’s a human sacrifice to the Illuminati. No, a pinata full of stock options. Wait… If I’m supposed to be the virgin sacrifice, I have bad news for you…”
Bryce ducks under a low-hanging light fixture. “This is a direct line to the kitchen to make it easier for servers to refill their trays without disturbing guests.”
“Are you telling me your house has secret passages? Did you ever sneak in here as a kid? Spy on people? Please tell me little Bryce engaged in at least one act of childhood rebellion.”
He stops so abruptly, I smack into his broad back. He spins, glacier-blue eyes locking onto mine—so intense, my lungs forget how oxygen works.
“What do you think?”
“Right. No fun. No snooping. Only WWE takedowns of female party crashers.”
I see it.
A glint.
The tiniest, most microscopic twinkle of amusement in those arctic eyes.
I want to dive into that twinkle and live there forever.
Because here’s the thing:
I’ve always known how to get under Bryce Sterling’s skin.
I used to think if I poked him enough—teased, flirted, dropped an inappropriate joke or ten—he’d stop seeing me as Gavin’s annoying shadow and see me as something more.
He didn’t.
Focus on the task, Petra. Hand over these stupid cufflinks, make a semi-graceful exit, and then find the nearest hole to crawl into for… I don’t know… ever. Seriously, being around this man makes my brain go berserk in ways that should be studied by scientists .
Bryce stops outside a heavy-looking door that blends into the wall so perfectly I almost walk past it. He holds out his palm expectantly. “I can handle the delivery from here.”
“Nope. I’m already late because my car got arrested. Gavin’s got this whole thing about personal responsibility. I need to hand these over or he’ll think I’m flaking again.”
“I could explain—”
“You clearly don’t know the full extent of my fuckup history.”
He sighs. “Stay here. I’ll track him down.”
“Sure thing, Moneybags.”
“I mean it, Pip.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t. Move.”
I cock my hip and smirk. “If you want to handcuff me right here and now, I support that kink.”
For a glorious second… he blushes.
If I were keeping score—and mentally, I am—I’ve bagged a grin, a twinkle, and a blush all in one night. The microsecond when his control slips and the honest version of him emerges from behind the Sterling family crest is highly addictive.
Seriously, what are you doing? Stop flirting with him. You know it’s hopeless.
He clears his throat, adjusts his bow tie, and disappears through the door. Beautiful chamber music filters in from the adjoining room.
God, he looks… Unfair .
That tux isn’t just fitted—it’s a freaking exoskeleton, engineered by fashion sorcerers with doctorates in Making Bryce Sterling Look Like a Golden God Among Mortals. And the way he moves—measured, precise, as if every molecule in his body knows exactly what to do .
If confidence had a scent, it would smell like him. Expensive. Sharp. And completely untouchable.
I glance down at myself and immediately wish I hadn’t. Ugh. The idea of me in his world?
Laughable.
He has me stashed behind a door like the help he forgot to tip. Not even allowed to step inside with the real guests. As though I’m too wild, too messy, too damn… me to be seen.
The music crescendos with a violin solo so intense, I swear the instrument is having an extended orgasm. I check my phone. 8:07. Shit. I’m late for my bartending gig. Julio is going to have my ass. I fire off a text:
Me: Stuck in Beverly HELLS. Be there soon.
I exhale, letting the wall take some of the weight off my feet. My shoulder bumps something.
CLICK!
A small panel slides open, like something straight out of a Scooby-Doo episode.
A peephole.
Well, what do we have here?
I can’t speak for others, but when the universe offers me a backstage pass to the glittering freak show of the one percent… I take it. No questions asked.
At first, it’s what I expected.
Rows of powerful people in opulent chairs, dripping in jewels and designer clothes. A sea of tuxedos and tulle gowns, champagne flutes balanced on manicured fingers, expressions arranged in polite boredom .
But what they’re all staring at… in the center of the room… is weird. Super weird.
In the middle of this grand, high-society gala—
A man.
Wearing nothing but a pair of tighty-whiteys.
Standing in a circle of white canvases.
His face is obscured by thick blue and green paint that drips down his chiseled torso in psychedelic rivers. And around him?
Models.
Lots of models.
Also in their underwear, their petite bodies gleam under spotlights as they dance and flail like interpretive chickens who took jazz in third grade and quit before the recital.
The paint-faced man lifts a bucket high above his head with the dramatic flair of a Vegas magician.
“I AM LIMITATIONS!” he bellows.
Before I can blink, he dumps the red paint over his hair. It sloshes down his toned body, clinging to the bulge in his underwear and pooling at his feet like a crime scene.
The models surge forward like paint-starved zombies. They run their hands over his slippery body, gathering the crimson on their palms before spinning away to smack their hands against the pristine white canvases.
SMACK! SLAP! WHACK!
Each slap sounds like someone getting spanked in a sex dungeon.
The paint man thrusts his pelvis at a canvas, smearing a rainbow streak across it with alarming enthusiasm.
“I AM brOKEN!” Paint Man screams, dropping to his knees .
The models respond by falling dramatically to the floor and writhing like they’re being simultaneously electrocuted.
“I AM REBORN!” he shrieks, jumping back to his feet and spreading his arms wide. Paint flies off his body, spattering the front row of Chanel and Armani.
“Cool cool cool…” I whisper to myself. “We’ve entered the Eyes Wide Shut cult portion of the evening.”
The door beside me swings open. Bryce enters with my brother in tow. I instantly morph into Innocent Petra Who Definitely Wasn’t Spying On The One Percent’s Paint Orgy.
“What the hell?” Gavin’s voice is tight, controlled.
I thrust the velvet box at him. “Ta-da! Your sparkly wrist decorations, as requested. Before you ask, my car was detained by Officer Cockburn, and yes, that’s his real name. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what? Doing your job?” He snatches it. “These are late.”
“Oh no. Did the champagne warm by two degrees while you waited?”
He drags a slow, soul-killing gaze over my disheveled appearance. “Hold on. How did you manage to get into this party?”
I freeze. Because the real answer?
Involves bushes.
Security threats.
And a criminal-level tackle on Bryce’s ballsack.
“I escorted her in.”
I whip my head toward him so quickly, I pull a neck muscle.
Bryce Sterling covered for me. Why?
I don’t let my shock show—I’ve got enough street smarts to not blow up my own lifeline.
The ballroom music dies mid-swell. There’s a beat of expectant silence followed by applause.
And then, like a blast from my high school traumatic past, an all-too-familiar voice wafts from the microphone, sending shivers down my spine.
“Thank you to the supremely talented artist Echo for his exclusive performance!” she says. “It was transformative, wasn’t it?”
Fucking Fiona Whitfield.
My brother’s fiancée.
My never-ending nightmare.
Imagine a life-size Barbie—glossy lips, sweet voice, perfect hair—possessed by a PR-friendly demon. And I’m the only one who sees the spinning head.
“And of course,” Fiona continues, “we must thank Mrs. Sterling-Holloway for hosting tonight’s spectacular silent auction for one of the most near and dear causes to my heart. Nip, Tuck & Woof—giving our pets the dignity to age gracefully with wrinkle-free doggy brows and lifted jowls!”