CHAPTER EIGHT
PETRA
Oh fuck. I’m toast. Burnt to a crisp.
Mr. Suit-and-Tie is a hair’s breadth away from me, smirking—deliciously dangerous. The air between us crackles with so much tension, I could slice it with one of these dainty forks. That voice of his? Straight out of the world’s dirtiest audiobook, and my brain is begging me to misbehave.
“If I clipped a collar on you… you’d be purring.”
My core ignites at the image—me in nothing but that ruby ring and a collar, on my knees, eyes yearning for only him.
My skin flushes hot, then cold—a rollercoaster of arousal crashing into suspicion.
What. The. Actual. Hell.
This isn’t the Bryce I know. Moneybags maintains a ten-foot radius of professionalism at all times. He says things like “portfolio diversification” and “appropriate decorum.”
Is this some twisted new tactic to control me? Flirt with the chaotic little sister to keep her in line for his best friend’s wedding? Seduce the problem child into submission? Because if so, that’s… that’s…
Genius. And infuriating. And embarrassingly effective .
Except… The joke’s on you, B. I figured out your petty game. Think you can tame me with a few dirty words? That because you’ve released your inner Christian Grey, you can put me on a leash?
HMPFH! Think again!
If Mr. Billionaire wants to be the etiquette police and my personal Dom-for-dinner, bring it on.
You’ve met your match, B.
I yank my chair to sit, but his grip stops me. This time, on my forearm.
“Wait,” he says. “No one’s seated yet.”
“Hands to yourself. Unless you’re prepared to use them properly.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” he says, like it’s a promise.
“I didn’t take you for the kinky type, Moneybags. Always assumed you’d be missionary-with-the-lights-off boring. The kind who says ‘pardon me’ when you come.”
His pupils dilate. Victory!
Bryce’s palm moves to my wrist, the pad of his thumb finding my pulse point and circling slowly. “Do you want to test that theory, Pip?”
For a heart-stopping moment, he looks prepared to pull me against him, consequences be damned. His attention lingers on my red lips, hungry and intent.
Words hover on my tongue— I dare you to take what you want—
“OHMYGODHI!”
Before I can register what’s happening, I’m engulfed in a hug of exotic perfume and designer silk and being treated like I’m someone’ s long-lost bestie.
“I’m Hana! Hana Choi! Maid of honor.” She pulls back, grinning at me with the blinding intensity of a sunbeam who’s never had a bad day in her life.
If Disney created a modern-day Korean princess, she would 100 percent resemble Hana Choi.
Her face is heart-shaped perfection—high cheekbones, flawless porcelain skin, and almond eyes that sparkle with perpetual excitement.
Her black hair falls in a glossy waterfall past her shoulders, each strand moving with choreographed grace as she bounces on her toes in a lavender silk gown.
Diamonds adorn her throat, wrists, and ears. Her teeth are aggressively white. And her voice? Somewhere between a Miss America contestant and a talking cupcake.
“You’re Gavin’s sister! Fiona has told me all about you!”
“Well, that’s terrifying.”
Hana giggles. “She said you were super spicy and unpredictable. Like a jalapeno in a mimosa!”
I force a smile. Am I supposed to believe this seat just happened to be open for Fiona’s BFF? Sure.
It’s surveillance, plain and simple. Hana’s here to monitor my every move, gather information against me, and report back to her queen B-word.
She clutches my arm, her bracelets digging into my skin. “This week is a full-blown fairy tale. The yacht party, the spa day, the sunset ceremony—it’s like living in a bridal magazine! Aren’t you totally over-the-moon excited?”
I would respond, but Hana’s already yapping away.
“Oh, silly me! Of course you’re excited! Gavin is your brother, and now you are getting the best sister-in-law on the planet. You and Fiona are going to be like, real sisters! ”
My face freezes in what I hope passes for a friendly smile. Real sisters? It’s more of a Cinderella-stuck-with-evil-stepsister situation.
BOOOOOOONG!
Everyone in the room goes still—mannequin-level, nobody-blink, first-date-fart-slip kind of still.
“Distinguished guests,” Nigel announces, “it is my most profound honor to present the hostess of this night—her grace, her legacy, her unparalleled taste—Miss Muffy Von Cashmere the Second. Heiress to the Von Cashmere Fortune, Empress of the Jungle Estate, Patroness of the Arts, and Beloved Mistress of Casa Cashmere.”
And in she trots.
Miss Muffy Von Cashmere the Second.
The dog.
She’s a spectacle. Her snowy fur is blown out within an inch of its life, her tiny frame swaddled in a green velvet couture evening gown with a gold satin sash cinched at the waist. Topping it off? A tiara.
The Maltese saunters down the center of the table on a raised platform designed specifically for her grand entrance, her little paws clicking against the polished surface.
She reaches the end of her royal runway and ascends a set of carpeted stairs to her throne, turning once to survey her subjects before delicately sitting down.
Chairs scrape as the entire room sits. Synchronized. Like this is a very normal thing we’re doing.
Before I can inhale, a tuxedoed server appears, lifts the napkin with quiet precision, and arranges it neatly in my lap.
Good God, these rich people don’t know how to do anything for themselves. What’s next? Personal fork lifters and mouth openers? Professional chewers to masticate our food before swallowing?
“Miss Muffy,” Nigel continues, “wishes to extend a warm welcome to you this evening, with special recognition to our honored bride and groom, Mr. Gavin Brinkman and Miss Fiona Whitfield.”
On cue, the dog lets out a single, sharp yap. Everyone breaks into polite applause.
“Thank you, Miss Muffy, for this extraordinary reception,” Fiona coos. “We’re overwhelmed by your legendary hospitality.”
Another bark. More applause.
“Isn’t she inspiring?” Hana says. “She’s so elegant. I keep thinking she’s like… a duchess instead of, you know… a dog.”
A fleet of servers glides into the room in formation, each carrying a covered silver dish. With seamless coordination, they set the first course in front of the guests. I watch my lid lift with a whisper of steam and something… gooey.
What’s in my bowl stops me cold: a milky white broth with clear, jelly-like blobs floating in it, garnished with unidentifiable brown bits.
“What is this?”
Hana squeals. “Ooh! Bird’s nest soup! What a treat!”
“Is it?”
“Oh yes. It’s made with real bird saliva, along with pieces of the actual swiftlet’s nest. Each one is hand-selected for quality. Think about how many birdies had to work overtime with their little mouths to create thirty servings!”
“Bird drool? A delicacy?” I mutter. “Any chance there’s an alt soup of the day, like chicken noodle?”
I reach for what I assume is the soup spoon (thimble-sized, because rich people prefer microscopic portions). Bryce leans over, his lips not quite touching my ear, and the heat of his breath sends an electric zap straight to my nipples.
“Wrong utensil, Pip,” he murmurs. “Keep breaking the rules, and I’ll have to discipline you.”
“Does it involve restraints and safe words?”
“Only if you’re very, very good for me.”
A sharp inhale betrays me. “Are you this forward with all the women you babysit?”
“Only disobedient ones who need a firm hand.”
Well. That’s… disturbingly hot.
No. He’s not steering this horny Titanic into an iceberg of bad decisions. I am.
I fake an exaggerated yawn, as though I’m unaffected by his boring advances. “Promises, promises. You high-society pretty boys are all bark, no bite.”
“Trust me, Pip… I bite.”
The spoon slips from my grasp, clattering against the china. Every head at the table swivels our way. I snatch it off the plate, gripping it with the proper technique.
His eyes drop to my bare fingers, then back to my face with a hint of disapproval.
“Where’s the ring you’re supposed to wear with this gown?”
The question throws me. Several snarky responses flash through my mind:
Option 1: Blasé Indifference. “That hideous thing? It clashed with my middle finger.”
Option 2: Playful Misdirection. “I loaned it to Miss Muffy. It complimented her crown. Who am I to deny our high priestess? ”
Option 3: Theatrical Distress. “Holy shit, you’re right! Someone must have stolen it! Alert security! Unless… Wait, do you think the butler did it? He seems shifty.”
I settle on: “Would you believe I dropped it off the balcony while fantasizing about your romantic proposal?”
He smirks. “Very amusing. I chose that particular ruby to compliment your… dress.”
“Well, I rebelled. Call it my protest against being packaged as some kind of sexy party favor.”
“It’s fine. You don’t need the ring,” he says, his gaze dragging over me like a fingertip. “You’re still temptation itself.”
Time out! Shut it down. I gotta collect myself before I lose it.
I break the connection between us and notice Nigel approaching Miss Muffy’s throne with the reverence of a monk at an altar. He bends slightly, careful not to crease his uniform, and takes a delicate sip from the dog’s bowl.
“It is, as always, perfection, madam.”
Only then does Muffy lower her snout to begin eating.
Spoons clink. Conversation resumes. The orchestral harp picks back up like it’s scoring a BBC miniseries about snobbery and mild incest.
I reluctantly dip into the gelatinous goop. The smell hits me. Is that sulfur ? It’s warm and… slightly salty? I part my lips and let the tiniest blob land on my tongue.
My taste buds stage an immediate revolt.
It’s as if someone liquefied a fart and garnished it with fish food. I not-so-discreetly spit the unholy concoction out, then wipe at my tongue frantically with my napkin, trying to erase the trauma of fermented parrot drool .