CHAPTER SIX #3
“No wonder the butler has a butler," Petra whispers.
“Indeed, Miss Brinkman.” His tone remains neutral. “Miss Whitfield alerted us to your… impromptu inclusion. Lodgings have been secured, albeit in the East Wing, regrettably separated from our principal guests.”
The East Wing. Code for social quarantine.
“Miss Brinkman will stay in the suite adjacent to mine. She’s my… companion.”
Wonderful. Now I’ve actually implied she is my mistress .
“Of course, Mr. Sterling.” Nigel bows again. “I shall alert the Pillow Attendant, Bathroom Amenities Coordinator, and Room Fragrance Technician of this alteration immediately.”
We follow Nigel across the stone path that snakes through the grounds. Impeccably trimmed garden hedges line the walkway, fountains trickle nearby, and birds chirp in the canopy above as though they’re whispering gossip.
I clear my throat. “The room assignment. I meant—so you’re not wandering this palace alone. I asked you to spare me from small talk, remember?”
“Thank you,” she says with startling sincerity.
A beat passes before I add, “You’ll be more comfortable… That is, it might help if you follow my lead a little.”
“Or I could do my thing and see how ruffled Lord Britchybottom gets when I wear pajamas to dinner. Think he’d have a stroke if I asked for ketchup?”
“His name is Nigel Featherwick.”
“I stand by my version.”
As we cross the grounds, the estate’s true scale is revealed.
Staff members appear and vanish like well-trained ghosts—gardeners pruning already-perfect shrubs, maids carrying fresh linens, security personnel in dark suits murmuring into earpieces.
The whole operation runs with the precision of Buckingham Palace.
“Is this place a house, or did we barge headfirst into a small sovereign nation?” Petra whispers. “Do I need my passport to use the bathroom?”
A rustling draws my attention. Petra is fishing for something in her pocket—the crumpled napkin from the jet emerges, and— dear God —she’s unwrapping contraband peanut butter cookies like we’re in a prison yard.
“Are you seriously eating?”
“What? You want one? They’re only slightly pocket-warmed and I’m guessing sixty percent cookie and forty percent lint.”
My internal panic meter shifts from yellow to flashing red. The path beneath my Italian loafers suddenly feels as though I’m walking on quicksand.
I’ve made a catastrophic miscalculation.
I’ve brought Petra “Chaos” Brinkman into the most etiquette-obsessed environment on the planet without providing a single word of preparation.
No crash course in silverware hierarchy.
No primer on acceptable conversation topics.
Not even basic instructions like “don’t eat cookies while walking through a billionaire’s estate like it’s a mall food court. ”
It’s as if I handed a tornado a crate full of scissors and aimed it at a paper factory.
Before Nigel’s eagle eyes can spot this breach of decorum, I snatch the cookie bundle and hastily rewrap them. “Put these away,” I hiss.
“Jeez, don’t have an aneurysm.” She tucks the bundle back into her pocket with a dramatic eye roll. “I forgot rich people only pretend to eat. Lucky for you, poverty’s made me excellent at intermittent fasting.”
My pulse hammers in my ears. Gavin will never forgive me if I allow his sister to become social cannon fodder. My mother will disown me. Every Sterling in history is probably rolling in their monogrammed mausoleums at my recklessness .
In approximately thirty seconds, we’ll walk into a room filled with people who consider jaywalking a capital offense—and I’ve brought someone who teases customers with her nipples for tips.
“Take my arm,” I command rather than offer, extending my elbow. “Do not make a move again without consulting me first. I’d prefer not to have any more surprises.”
As soon as the words escape my lips, I know I’ve made mistake number two. Telling Petra not to do something is like telling a storm not to rage. She doesn’t just double down—she triples down, adds fireworks, and invites spectators.
Her lips—those full, dangerous, perpetually sassy red lips—curve into a smirk that makes my blood run simultaneously hot and cold.
“But surprises are the best part, Moneybags.” She slides her arm through mine, her body heat seeping into my side. “And if it really bothers you, then why do your pupils dilate whenever I’m being naughty?”
I cough lightly into my fist—the most professional move I can manage while my brain fights my body’s suggestion to kiss her hard against the nearest statue.
“I think,” I say carefully, “it would serve us both if you tried—just this once—to be ladylike.”
She leans in, whispering in my ear, “Fine, I’ll play your little arm-candy charade. But, so we’re clear”—her voice drops to that dangerous purr—“there’s not a single ladylike thing about me. Especially between the sheets.”
There’s the proper reaction to that line. And then there’s the one I’m having… in my pants.
She flashes a smile that says, busted. Hard.
Get it together, Sterling. You’re about to face Gavin, and explaining why you’re mentally undressing his sister is not going to help your CEO exit strategy.
“Your party has assembled in the drawing room,” Nigel announces, ushering us forward.
I nod, then immediately turn to Petra. “No touching the art, no asking people their net worth, and please—for the love of God—don’t challenge anyone to a drinking contest.”
“So basically, you want me sedated.” She bats her eyelashes innocently. “What about breathing? Is that allowed?”
“Breathing is permitted. Minimally.”
The doors swing open to reveal a room that makes the Palace of Versailles look like a fixer-upper.
The ceilings soar two stories high. Chandeliers twinkle with the soft glow of aged crystal.
Everything is baroque or Victorian. The air smells of beeswax, old books, and that indefinable scent of extreme privilege.
Clusters of people are spread out across the room, but Petra’s focus goes directly to the huge oil painting above the fireplace.
The nameplate reads: Miss Muffy Von Cashmere.
The elderly woman in the portrait stares down with the kind of aristocratic disdain that only comes from generations of people bowing upon your entrance.
Her silver hair is sculpted into an architectural masterpiece.
Her face is a map of refined wrinkles—the kind that come from pursing your lips at inadequate table settings.
But the true masterpiece is the dog in her lap—a pristine white Maltese with fur so perfectly groomed, it makes the woman’s hair appear unkempt.
The pet wears matching pearls and a custom Chanel suit identical to its owner’s, down to the black piping and gold buttons.
Somehow, the dog’s expression is even more judgmental than the woman’s.
“Seriously? The old broad who plays dress-up with her dog is the one looking down on everybody?”
“I should tell you, Miss Mu—”
“Gav-Gav! Look who’s arrived,” Fiona says from the other side of the ballroom. Petra’s body tenses by my side.
“Bryce is here with Amand—” The sentence stalls on her tongue as we turn from the oversized canvas to the group.
“Petra?! Oh my God, is that really you?” Fiona’s eyes perform a head-to-toe scan of Petra’s outfit, her expression cycling through shock, confusion, and unmistakable jealousy. “I hardly recognized you.”
Gavin swoops in with a surprise bear hug that pries Petra’s arm from mine. Her warmth vanishes, and disturbingly, I’m already calculating how many seconds I need to wait before reclaiming her arm without seeming like a caveman.
“Thanks for coming, sis.”
“That vest,” Fiona says. “Is that Valentino’s new collection? I’ve been waitlisted for months.”
“Beats me.” Petra shrugs. “You’d have to ask Sebastian.”
“Sebastian Bellini styled you?!”
“Yeah. Weird, right? Though you gotta be careful with wardrobe malfunctions in this thing. One wrong move, and it’s hello, nipple city.” She throws me a wicked grin.
I extend my arm toward her. “Well, since we’ve just arrived, we should freshen up in our room—” Horror dawns as I hear my own words. “ Rooms! Our separate rooms. That are near each other. ”
“Nonsense!” Fiona interjects, slicing through my humiliation. “You must wait. Nigel told us Miss Muffy has awoken from her nap and is coming to greet us personally.”
I lower my arm, resigned to prolonging this torture. My eyes meet Petra’s, silently pleading for her to behave just a little longer.
And that’s when I hear it.
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
Tiny footsteps. Clicking across the marble.
The entire space falls silent, attention shifting toward the entryway. She appears.
The small white Maltese from that regal portrait, dressed in pearls and a custom designer outfit, trots into view with absolute purpose.
The dog pauses dramatically, surveying the guests with beady black eyes.
She sniffs the air.
And then charges—barking loudly—straight for Petra.
“Oh hey! You’re the doggie from the painting! Hi, cutie,” she coos, scratching behind its ears. “You smell my cookies, don’t you?”
My brain fires frantic signals: Intercept! Create a distraction! Release the emergency sprinklers! Do SOMETHING!
Before I can stop her, she scoops the fancy Maltese into her arms.
And all hell breaks loose.
Security emerges from nowhere like ninjas. Earpieces. Suits. One of them actually grabs the gun at his hip.
Petra stiffens, eyes going wide as she clutches the squirming furball. “Uh… what’s happening? I haven’t even fed her the cookie yet. Technically, she assaulted me. ”
“Madam.” Nigel’s voice is polite enough to butter toast, but there’s no mistaking the command in it. “I must insist you release Miss Muffy IMMEDIATELY.”
Her eyes ping to the guards. To the shocked guests. Back to me.
“Pip…” My voice is controlled. I take another step closer, ignoring the security team tracking my every move. “You’re holding the heir to the Von Cashmere oil dynasty,” I explain slowly. “And our hostess for the week. Miss Muffy Von Cashmere… the Second.”
Petra glances at the furball in her arms and then at the portrait on the wall, comprehension dawning with horrifying slowness. Her mouth drops open.
“Are you fucking kidding me? THIS DOG is a BILLIONAIRE?!”
And that’s the moment I realize my gravest error in preparing Petra.
The primary rule of surviving Casa Cashmere: Never touch the dog who owns her own mansion, staff, and twelve-figure trust fund yet occasionally still drinks from a toilet.