CHAPTER THREE #3
The moment Fiona is done pitching her spa day trap , the sitting room door swings open.
In waltzes Judith Sterling-Holloway, Bryce’s mother and Beverly Hills’ reigning queen of judgment.
Her silver hair is swept into a complicated updo.
Not a strand dares to misbehave. She’s wrapped in a gown the color of midnight, and a constellation of diamonds drips from her ears and neck.
I dive behind an oversized potted palm and nearly take out a porcelain vase. From behind the fronds, I check for sniper dots once more. Phew. Still clear.
Through the greenery, I spy Bryce—standing next to his mother, his expression unreadable, his posture impeccable. The Sterling family portrait of perfection, framed by the doorway’s gilded molding.
“Fiona, darling,” Judith’s voice slices through the air—sharp as a paper cut but somehow melodic. “Having your wedding at Casa Cashmere? How thrilling !”
“Sadly, Gavin might cancel because of work. ”
“Nonsense.” The ice in her martini tinkles as she waves her hand dismissively. “Gavin, you’re the CEO. You make the rules—everyone else falls in line. That’s how power works.”
I glance at Gavin, whose jaw is clenched so hard, the air pressure in the room has shifted.
Until now, I’ve never wanted to punch an old lady in the throat before.
“Besides, you do NOT turn down an invitation from Miss Muffy Von Cashmere. That’s social suicide. People wait years just to apply for the chance to be rejected.”
“That’s what I told him,” Fiona says, nodding.
“Bryce, darling. You remember when we took you there for your eighth birthday?”
“Yes, Mother. The bird-watching observatory was particularly educational.”
Judith takes a delicate sip of her martini. “Bryce wanted a silly carnival. Hot dogs, face painting, bumper cars… Can you imagine? But then I got the invitation to Casa Cashmere from Muffy herself, and well. We weren’t going to pass up that opportunity.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
That quiet, steady tapping starts again, his finger brushing his thigh like he’s trying to ground himself. A blinking light that says something’s wrong. Most people miss it, but I’ve learned how to spot it. I feel it in my chest before I even see it.
I’m picturing eight-year-old Bryce, dreaming of cotton candy and carousel rides and then getting dragged to some snooty billionaire compound.
Did he ever get that carnival?
Did someone at least let him eat a hot dog ?
The thought gives me an odd disappointment. Like when you find an old toy still in the box that never got played with.
“Gavin, this invitation cements your status. It’s on the top of my list for Bryce and Amanda’s wedding. Either there or Buckingham Palace. Though really, that place could use a facelift. So drab.”
Wedding? He’s engaged?
Why am I surprised? Of course he is.
Fiona vibrates with excitement. “We were lucky because the king of, oh, some tiny country—I forget which one—was supposed to vacation there, but he got food poisoning and almost died. Now he’s in a coma and can’t use his reservation.”
“That is a stroke of luck,” Judith says. “Well then, it’s settled.”
“I think my brother can decide for himself what he is and isn’t going to do.”
Dead silence falls over the room as all eyes lock on to my plant hideout.
Oh shit. Guess I said that out loud.
“Security!” Judith yelps, clutching her necklace like I might try to steal it.
The door bursts open, and in rush the two goons from my garden wrestling match. They skid to a halt when they spot me, recognition dawning on their faces.
“Hey fellas, miss me?” I step out from behind my botanical shield, wiggling my fingers in a wave.
Bryce steps forward, slipping into diplomat mode with practiced ease. “Mother, it’s fine. This is Petra, you remember? Gavin’s younger sister. You’ve met her before.”
“I don’t see the resemblance,” she says, blinking slowly. “ Gavin looks… successful.”
Ouch. True, but ouch.
Before I can shoot back where I’d like to shove her martini olive, a security guard touches his earpiece.
“Ma’am,” he says. “The governor is departing, and your husband is requesting your presence.”
Judith sighs dramatically. “Naturally. The man can’t locate his own handkerchief without staff assistance.
” At the threshold, she pauses to address one of the guards.
“Keep an eye on… that.” She waves vaguely in my direction.
“I want her searched when she leaves. This is a charity gala, not a shelter.”
I scan my body once again for sniper dots as she leaves. “Well, she didn’t have me shot on sight, so that went better than expected.”
No one laughs.
Tough room.
Gavin shifts his stance and turns toward Bryce, all business. “Can we make it work? Shift the IPO prep around the ceremony?”
Bryce hesitates for half a beat. “Honestly? It’s risky. We’re two weeks out from going public. There’s always a surprise this close to the finish line.”
I catch it. The flicker behind his eyes. Something he wants to say. Something important. But Bryce locks it down tight.
I move toward the door. “All right. I’m gonna peace out before I get cavity-searched in the driveway. Sorry I can’t help with all the Miss Muffy stuff and royal coma logistics. Best of luck with the marital jellyfish.”
“That’s it,” Gavin says, snapping his fingers. “Petra’s the answer.”
“Say what now? ”
“You come to Casa Cashmere,” he says, stepping closer. “You run point. Manage the wedding week with Fiona. Handle logistics so I can stay focused on the business.”
“Yeah, that’s gonna be a hard pass,” I say, backing toward the exit.
“Gav-Gav, honey, she barely agreed to be a bridesmaid. I don’t think wedding coordination is her… strength.”
“But, Fi, this is what you’ve been wanting. You said yourself you want to bond with Petra.”
I watch Fiona’s face, catching the flare of panic that darts across her features—gone so quickly I might have imagined it. But I didn’t. She doesn’t want this any more than I do.
Gavin cups her face. “Fi, I trust my sister. There’s nothing she won’t do for the people she loves. When it counts, she shows up.”
Why is he saying that? I’ve been nothing but a nonstop disappointment since I dropped out of college. And this week at his company, I have not been killing it.
“I want you to have your dream wedding,” Gavin tells Fiona, his gaze intense. “And I’ll make it happen. That’s what I do.”
She softens, her expression melting into practiced adoration. “If this is what it takes for you to say yes… then yes.”
Gavin adjusts his suit jacket. “New deal, Petra. Eight days. You help me get through this wedding, and when it’s over? You’re done working for me. I’ll pay for college. No more strings attached, Wildcat.”
Ugh. Using my childhood nickname means he’s serious. The promise dangles in front of me like a carrot on a stick—another hoop to jump through, another test to prove I can be the version of myself Gavin isn’t embarrassed of. Behave. Blend in. Don’t talk too loud or say too much .
If I follow the rules for a week, maybe I’ll finally earn more than a dismissive sigh.
I wish—just once—his love didn’t feel like something I had to earn.
“I’m sorry, big bro. The answer’s no. I don’t do dress-up games and seating charts,” I say, standing my ground. “This isn’t my world. And frankly? I like it that way.”
And I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a spork than pretend to be friends with Fiona Whitfield.
“I’m sticking to our original agreement,” I say. “I’ll finish out the summer working for your company like I promised. I’ll come to the wedding and play the dutiful bridesmaid. I’ll even bring Mom—but I’m not going to help decorate the fairy tale.”
I turn on my heel and head for the door.
It opens before I touch it.
Because of course the security guards are there waiting for me.
I pat myself down with exaggerated motions. “See? No centerpieces in my bra. No antique silverware taped to my thighs. And no decorative Fabergé eggs hiding in my reproductive system.”
They nod. One gestures— after you.
I know I should walk away.
But I am weak. I am human. And the Bryce-shaped temptation is too strong.
I start to turn back, a parting zinger locked and loaded. “Later, Moneyba—”
WHAM!
My arm swings wide and connects with a massive vase.
CRASH!
The sound of shattering porcelain is deafening. A standing ovation for my performance of This Bitch Doesn’t Belong. Starring me, Petra Brinkman.
Suddenly, I’m being escorted— fine, physically hauled —toward the exit, and the last thing I see is the disdain on Bryce’s face.
“Don’t worry,” I call out. “I can cover that… My uterus hits the dark web tonight.”