CHAPTER SEVEN
PETRA
GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER
Me: Quick Cam question: Do you speak enough Spanish to explain to a judge why I’m not ACTUALLY a menace to society?
Cam: We might need my Abuela for that.
Katie: PETRA! Are you really in jail?
Me: Not yet, but the day is young and I’m feeling ambitious.
Katie: Please don’t become an international fugitive.
Petra: At this point, prison might be the safer option.
I FONDLED A BILLIONAIRE Maltese in front of half the Forbes list. How is that a thing? What kind of upside-down elite world have I stepped into? Pocket cookies are a crime, but some crazy old broad can leave her entire fortune to a dog?
Right now, I’m hunched over a tufted bench in the bathroom, grunting as I try to hook sixty-two microscopic demon-clasps along the spine of this dress. My fingers are useless—like I’m defusing a bomb in oven mitts. Every time I fasten one, another pops open. Shit!
This dress is a catastrophe. Dusty rose ruffles, gauzy layers—like someone turned a wedding cake into a gown.
Strapless. Puffy. A-line. And the leg slit?
It goes up to places my gynecologist explores annually.
The corset top is so tight, I’ll be coughing up a lung before the shrimp cocktail hits the table.
“Fucking pink. Sebastian, you vindictive fashion tyrant.”
These hooks aren’t having it. I drop my arms, gasping as though I’ve lost a wrestling match.
“Hair down it is.” I yank the curls out of their clip and let them tumble over my shoulders, covering the back of the dress.
I collapse onto the mattress and take a moment to acknowledge the room I’ve been stomping around in for the last half hour.
It’s obscene.
The suite is a clash of cultures so absurd, it somehow works—European grandeur meets Mexican coastal chic. Soaring ceilings with exposed dark-wood beams and whitewashed walls, and big-ass arched windows framing panoramic views of lush jungle and sparkling ocean.
French doors lead to a private balcony. The bathroom is a marble shrine where rich people worship their own naked reflections—complete with an exhibitionist tub facing a wide, uncurtained window.
“Because nothing says ‘I’m wealthy’ like flashing your fun bits to passing toucans.”
Inside the walk-in closet, my new wardrobe has been Marie Kondo’d into submission. Each outfit hangs on its own velvet hanger with a laminated cue card featuring instructions .
I snatch the note from tonight’s selection, reading aloud in my best snooty Sebastian accent:
To Miss Brinkman, My Most Challenging Project:
It has become PAINFULLY clear that, left to your own devices, you would pair Versace with gym socks and strut like it’s revolutionary.
This. CANNOT. Happen. Not on my watch. Karl Lagerfeld would claw his way out of hell and slap us both in the face.
I have therefore taken the liberty of providing toddler-level instructions.
Follow them PRECISELY. These notes are your style defibrillator—use them or die in pleats.
Your wardrobe rehabilitation is my cross to bear.
— Sebastian Bellini. Fashion Savior. Miracle Worker. Long-suffering saint.
“Understood. A subway rat in a designer gown is still a subway rat.”
My mind recalls the scolding from Butler Lord Britchybottom and how Bryce’s voice was tight with embarrassment as he apologized.
“Miss Brinkman’s not accustomed to Casa Cashmere’s protocols,” he’d said. “This is her first exposure to… this level of society.”
What the fuck am I doing?
I’ve been throwing myself at Bryce—an engaged man—who clearly sees me as nothing more than an embarrassing obligation.
Every eyebrow raise?
Polite discomfort.
Every moment I felt special?
Damage control .
He’s Bryce freaking Sterling. And I’m Gavin’s little sister—aka the problem to be managed.
God, I’ve been acting stupid. Whatever this twisted thing is, it ends now. No more fantasy. No more flirting. I’m not here for him. I’m here for Gavin.
I’m going to help my brother survive his wedding to Miss Satan in stilettos. To prove, for once, that I can show up and shut up. That I’m able to hold my own in a world that never wanted me in the first place.
That I deserve a future that doesn’t come with a tip jar.
“They want proper? Fine, I’ll be a proper fucking lady in this stupid princess costume.”
I flip Sebastian’s instruction card over.
WELCOME DINNER ENSEMBLE (Dusty Rose Oscar de la Renta)
Mr. Sterling personally selected this Tiffany ten-carat Mozambique ruby ring as the focal accessory. I’ve sized it up considerably to accommodate your working-class knuckles. Try not to get it caught in your hair or use it to open beer cans.
I grab the Tiffany box and march to the balcony. I need air. I should fake an illness and escape this whole bullshit dinner. When I push through the French doors, the warm evening breeze ruffles my dress. I slump onto a curved iron chair, watching the sun dip below the horizon.
The jewelry box feels unusually heavy in my palm. I lift it to reveal —
“Holy shit.”
The ruby is enormous, a deep, bloodred stone that seems to pulse with its own heartbeat. A halo of diamonds surround it, catching the fading sunlight and scattering tiny rainbows across my skin.
I slide it onto my finger—my left ring finger, because apparently my newfound resolve hasn’t caught up to my brain yet. It twirls loosely, at least two sizes too big, spinning around and resembling a tiny, sparkly hula hoop.
“Thank you, Sebastian, for your vote of confidence in my sausage fingers.”
I hold my hand up, watching the light play through the deep red stone. The exact shade of my favorite lipstick. My lips I’ve caught Bryce staring at more than once.
He chose this. Specifically this color. For me.
For one dangerous, indulgent moment, I let myself slide down the slippery slope of what-ifs.
What if he picked this ring because he has feelings for me?
What if he wasn’t engaged to Perfect Amanda and this was actually my ring?
What if Bryce wanted to marry… me?
God, you’re embarrassing! No more thoughts of him. No more daydreams.
“You want dignity, Petra? Start acting like you’ve got some…” I push up from the chair, determined to go back inside and channel my inner duchess or debutante or whoever the hell manages to look elegant while secretly spiraling—
—and promptly trip over the massive poufy ballgown wrapped around my legs.
“Motherfu—”
THUD !
I faceplant.
The floor is stone. The pain is instant. The sound… is worse.
Tink-tink-tink-tink.
The ring. The stupid ring popped off my finger and— “No-no-no-NO!”
I scramble to my knees and lunge toward the balcony edge in time to see it disappear over the side.
Gone.
Straight into the jungle landscaping, swallowed by thick ferns.
“Fuuuuuuuck.”
I leap to my feet, grabbing my heels, phone, and designer clutch, and barrel out the door. Panic floods my system, erasing any thoughts of ladylike behavior.
If I’m lucky, I’ll find it before I have to explain to Bryce I was playing fake fiancée like a lunatic.
I burst into the garden, my bare feet slapping the stone pathway as I skid around the corner of the building. The silky tulle of my dress catches on a sculpted bush, and I yank it free with zero regard for Sebastian’s masterpiece.
“If I were a ruby the size of a grape, where would I hide?”
I press my cheek against the cool grass, peering under a massive shrub with orange flowers, then push my way deeper into the foliage. A sharp thorn rakes across my forearm, leaving a long red scratch. “Son of a—”
I bite back the expletive as I hear voices from above. A familiar blonde head appears two balconies over.
Fiona.
I scramble behind an enormous hedge and peer through the leaves .
Standing next to her is a man I do not recognize. A man who is definitely not my brother.
He’s tall, lanky, with long wavy dark hair cascading to his shoulders.
He’s rocking extra-tight leather pants, a paisley vest with nothing underneath, and more scarves than a magician’s sleeve.
Rings decorate every finger. A feather earring dangles from one ear.
His vibe? Black-eyeliner rock star meets Renaissance Fair enthusiast meets thrift store on an absinthe bender.
Their eyes are locked on each other, bodies way too close to be considered just friends.
“What the shit?” I mutter.
I strain to hear their conversation, the breeze carrying fragments down to my hiding spot.
“…everything we’ve planned…”
“…Gavin has no idea what’s coming…”
I open my camera app.
“Say cheese, Home Wrecker Barbie,” I whisper, extending my arm to get an angle of them together.
They disappear into the room. Dammit.
I stretch farther, lengthening my reach, when a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
Instinctively, I whirl around—my phone gripped like a weapon—and go straight for the throat.
THWACK!
“HRRNNGGK!”
Bryce makes a sound like a goose being strangled, stumbling backward with his hand flying to his neck. His face contorts—first surprise, then pain—as his eyes bulge and he struggles to breathe .
“Oh my God, B! I’m so sorry. Seriously, though. Do you have a death wish?”
He makes another concerning noise, more wheeze than words, and tugs at his bow tie as if it’s suddenly become a noose.
“Are you dying? Please don’t die.” I step closer, genuinely concerned now. “I can’t afford the legal fees for manslaughter, and orange is a worse color on me than pink.”
“What—” his voice is raspy “— are you doing out here?”
“Communing with nature,” I say flatly, brushing a leaf off my gown. “You know how us broke people love hobbies that are free. Tree-hugging, dirt whispering, ring scavenging…”
Do not acknowledge that he is handsome AF in that tux.
That little crease appears between his eyebrows. “Pip, about earlier—”
“Let me guess—you’re mad I didn’t curtsy before causing a scene in front of your country-club cult and their four-legged dictator. Don’t worry. I got the message loud and clear.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Regret? Frustration? Who cares.