CHAPTER SEVEN #2
“That’s not what I—”
“Save it.” I brush past him without slowing. “You’ve made it clear I’m an embarrassment.”
“Let me escort you to dinner.”
“As charming as that sounds, hard pass on your escort service.” I’m already walking away. Fast. Determined.
“Petra, wait—”
I don’t look back.
Bryce Sterling isn’t my concern. Gavin is. And he deserves to know what I just witnessed.
** *
I storm down the main hallway, a woman on a mission.
The waiting area outside the formal dining room is next-level luxurious—marble floors polished to an ice-rink sheen, chandeliers dripping like diamond waterfalls, and the distinct scent of money, which I guess is the smell of fresh flowers and furniture polish.
Somewhere in the distance, a harp is playing.
Because of course it is.
All I want tonight is to stay ten football fields away from Bryce and figure out what the hell Gavin’s shady, fake-ass fiancée was doing with that wannabe pirate.
I scan the crowd of guests—each one glammed up and chatting in designer evening wear. I spot my brother’s coiffed dark-brown hair near a massive floral arrangement. He looks every inch the financial titan in his tailored Tom Ford tuxedo.
“Hey bro. Where’s Fiona?” I ask, tugging at my bodice as I sidle up to him.
Gavin turns, champagne flute in hand. “Had something to attend to. She’ll be down soon.” His eyebrows lift, amused. “That’s… quite a gown, Wildcat.”
“I look like a marshmallow had a baby with a lampshade.”
I straighten my spine, ready to drop my bombshell. My mind races through possible openers:
Option 1: Blunt-force truth bomb. “Hey, Gav, your bride-to-be is cheating. Not a hunch. Not a maybe. I saw her with my own eyes. Surprise! I was right.”
Option 2: Casually unhinged. “Okay, quick question, and I swear I’m not trying to start a wedding fire—but is Fiona, by chance, supposed to be seducing dudes in flower gardens like some Real Horny Housewife?”
Option 3: The slow burn. “Remember when I told you Fiona was evil? Well, Satan called, and he wants his handmaiden back.”
Before I can decide between sarcasm or scorched-earth honesty, Gavin cuts in.
“The dog incident was unfortunate, but let’s move past it.”
“I didn’t know it was their furry overlord. There wasn’t exactly a sign saying ‘Do not touch: canine billionaire.’”
“Petra.” There’s that tone—half exasperation, half grudging affection. “You need to—”
“Gavin, I must apologize.” Bryce’s smooth voice interrupts from behind me. “I failed to properly brief her on the protocols here. I’ll make sure she understands what’s expected moving forward.”
As Bryce stands beside me, his arm brushes mine—a hot whisper of contact that lights me up. I’m turned on, off-balance, and pissed about it. My body goes into fight-or-flirt mode, and I choose fight.
“That won’t be necessary, Moneybags. I’m a big girl. I can navigate rich-people nonsense on my own.”
Gavin sighs, giving me the you’re-being-difficult-again face. “This isn’t your world, sis. Let Bryce help you.”
“I don’t need a warden. I’m not little Pip anymore.”
“Could you, for once, not fight me on everything?” Gavin steps closer, lowering his voice. “One week. That’s all I’m asking. Be nice to Fiona. Let Bryce guide you. Can you do that for me?”
I start to bristle, but then he places a hand on my arm.
The weight is firm, grounding. And there it is—that damn Rolex.
The one Mom and I bought him. For all his hard-ass tendencies, Gavin’s always been my rock.
He stood up when Dad left. He worked his way through college while sending money home.
He’s given me more second chances than I deserve.
A single week of playing nice is more than reasonable. Besides, I shouldn’t bring up Mystery Man until I have real proof. My suspicions won’t cut it—only solid evidence will survive Gavin’s scrutiny.
“Fine, I’ll let Moneybags be my fairy godmother.”
Bryce’s mouth twitches at the corner.
Gavin switches instantly to CEO mode. “Great. You’re my point person for wedding logistics. I’m depending on you to stay on top of things.”
My phone’s out of my clutch, and I’m opening my notes app as he launches into his list.
“Confirm the fire dancers have a safety perimeter set up for the reception, and Fiona wants an ice luge for the tequila tasting at the bachelorette party. Make sure it’s the one carved like a Mayan jaguar, not a walrus penis.”
I glance up from my screen. “Ice sculptures? In Mexico? Why not set fire to your money instead? It’s more efficient.”
“Miss Muffy has very specific aesthetic preferences,” Gavin says, ignoring me.
“The gift bags for tomorrow’s excursion will require her final sign-off before distribution.
Then, confirm the satellite hookup for the virtual guests.
Mom wants to make sure Uncle Charlie can see from his hospital bed in Palm Springs.
He’s doing great, by the way, recovering from hip surgery. ”
“Lucky Uncle Charlie. He doesn’t have to be here.”
“Petra, focus up. It’s expected that you ask Miss Muffy for all approvals—or consult with Nigel, who acts on her behalf.”
“I’m sorry… The dog ? I need the dog’s permission? ”
The silence hits hard. For a moment, I think I’ve stepped in it. Thankfully, every head swivels toward the entrance.
Fiona floats across the ballroom toward us, oozing old Hollywood glamour. Her gown is a masterpiece of silver beading and crystal work, creating the illusion she’s glittering on ice. Her blonde hair is twisted into an elaborate updo.
“Fi, you’re a vision,” my brother says, kissing her cheek.
“Thank you, Gav-Gav,” she purrs, her hand landing on his chest with practiced delicacy. “Sorry I’m late. Had a last-minute detail to handle.”
Oh, I bet you did. In a candlelit room. With Mystery Man’s scarf tied around your hands.
I search for evidence on her wrist, but if it’s there, it’s hidden beneath a massive diamond bracelet.
“Petra! Playing princess tonight?” she says, eyeing me. “That dress is… surprising. So edgy-meets-elegant. Like a tattooed Cinderella.”
The insult is wrapped so beautifully in compliment paper that if you’re not fluent in Fiona’s backstabbing, you’d totally miss it.
“Wow thanks,” I reply with artificial sweetness. “Your outfit is stunning too. I especially love how it matches your personality—cold, sharp, and shine over substance.”
Gavin’s eyes narrow to deadly slits, sending me a clear warning shot across the bow.
“What I mean is,” I say through gritted teeth, “you’re gorgeous. Like an angel who fell from heaven…”
Fiona beams, smug as ever.
Gavin claps a hand on Bryce’s shoulder. “We need to talk Heartvest. I received a call earlier about some wording Legal flagged in the press packet. Might be smart to pivot to an early media hit—”
Fiona clears her throat. “I thought we agreed on no business talk at wedding events.”
“You’re right, Fi. I’m here. All in.”
He kisses her cheek again, and I glance at Bryce.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He’s a statue everywhere else—jaw tight, shoulders square—but that finger? It’s sending a distress signal in Morse code.
What’s got him wound so tight? The business? Fiona? Or maybe… me?
BWONNNNGGGGGGGG!
The sound vibrates through my bones like a church bell, making me jump so violently, I nearly lose a shoe.
“Holy shitballs!”
“Language, Pip,” Bryce grumbles under his breath.
I spin to see Nigel standing beside an enormous bronze gong, his white-gloved hand still gripping the mallet. He’s now wearing an even more formal tuxedo with tails that makes the previous one look casual. His silver hair shellacked in place, expression as frozen as a wax figure.
“Esteemed guests,” he announces in his crisp British accent, “dinner is served.”
Two men also dressed in black tuxedos part the towering double doors.
Bryce catches my elbow as Gavin and Fiona sweep into the dining room like they’re on a red carpet . I try to follow, but his grip gently holds me back.
“A moment, please,” he says quietly.
“Can we not? Whatever lecture you’re dying to give me, shove it in a Tiffany bag and deliver it later. ”
“That’s not my intention. The back of your dress is undone.”
I twist, fumbling behind me like a feral raccoon pawing at a snack bag, and yeah. My spine is… out. Exposed. Back door open. Peekaboo hour at Casa Cashmere.
“Turn around,” he says firmly.
My brain does a full somersault.
Because oh hell no. Those two words shouldn’t be that hot. But they are. They are panty-melting, command-me-Daddy levels of hot.
I should punch him. But instead, I obey and turn.
Big mistake. Huge.
Because I’m weak. Because I hate the way I want him to see my back. My ink. My skin. All the pieces of me that say I’m not who you think I am —but also, I wish I was good enough to be who you want.
I stare at a sconce on the wall as though it’s the only thing anchoring me to this dimension.
Behind me, Bryce moves—measured, deliberate.
My breath catches as he finesses the tiny hook-and-eye, knuckles brushing the bare skin between my shoulder blades.
His hands are infuriatingly warm, annoyingly gentle, and way too restrained.
My skin prickles. My stomach flips. Every nerve sings, like maybe he wants to rip this dress off, not fix it.
This is not foreplay, Petra. He’s simply being helpful. A gentleman.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m allergic to you,” I snap.
“Your tattoo here. Are these wildflowers?” he says, his finger tracing the floral design along my shoulder blade, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
“Look at you, Moneybags, knowing your roadside weeds. ”
He leans in and whispers against my ink. “I like them.”
Three words is all it takes, and I fall into the fantasy I promised myself I wouldn’t entertain again.
Him. Me. This room.