CHAPTER EIGHT #2
I glance at Bryce, who’s sipping the fancy bird barf soup as if it’s delicious. His eyes dare me to say otherwise.
Nuh-uh. I need a distraction from this bowl of sinus gravy and the temporarily insane billionaire beside me. Hana! Maybe I can extract some useful Fiona intel from her bubbly sidekick. Keep your friends close and your enemy’s oversharing bestie closer.
“So, Hana, tell me about you.”
“Oh! Me?” She seems genuinely surprised. “Nobody ever asks. My family owns ChoCorp—the Korean tech giant inside everyone’s phone—but they won’t let me work there. They said my talents were better used elsewhere.”
She says this with the same breezy tone a person might use to mention they prefer chocolate over vanilla.
“They won’t let you work at your family’s company?”
“Of course not, silly! I’m engaged to marry my daddy’s business competitor!” She flashes her left hand, where a diamond the size of a walnut sits. “It’s a strategic alliance thing. Daddy says women are better at mergers through marriages than with board meetings.”
I’m stunned silent by this casually delivered bombshell.
“Fiona is just so lucky to marry someone handsome and under fifty! My fiancé is seventy-five and has this weird breathing thing when he sleeps, but my mother says that’s a plus because I’ll inherit sooner! What about you? Has your family chosen your husband yet?”
“I don’t have to get married. I’ve made my own fortune, selling meth.”
Hana’s eyes go wide before bursting into tinkling laughter. “You are too funny! Fiona said you had the most amazing sense of humor! ”
Beside me, Bryce clears his throat pointedly, but I stubbornly keep my attention on Hana.
“Aww, look at them,” Hana sighs dreamily.
“Gavin actually gives eye contact to Fiona when she talks! That’s like, relationship goals!
My fiancé‘s assistant gave me an entire document about which topics I’m not allowed to bring up at dinner.
Apparently, his first three wives did not understand the importance of proper conversation filtering! ”
“Yeah, I’ve never had much luck with filters. I’m more of a say-what-I-think-and-let-the-jaws-drop kind of girl.”
She giggles. Again. “Oh my God, I love that about you! I can tell we’re going to become best friends this week.”
“Who knows?” I say through gritted teeth.
I glance sideways and catch Fiona… talking to Muffy as though she’s hosting a podcast with a Maltese.
BWONNNNGGGGGGGG.
Hana gasps and turns toward the sound, attention temporarily hijacked.
Perfect.
With the precision of a spy and the nonchalance of a street magician, I tilt my bowl ever-so-slightly and pour my untouched congealed bird phlegm soup into hers.
“You’re such a naughty, naughty girl,” Bryce murmurs. “What am I going to do with you?”
“No idea what you mean,” I say, the picture of innocence as I set down my empty bowl. “I made sure to lick up every drop. It was delicious.”
“Such a waste,” he says, his knee brushing mine under the table. “I could’ve shown you how to properly… swallow. ”
My thighs clench. My ovaries squeal. My entire pelvic floor stages a rave.
He’s waiting for a response. Somewhere in the control room of my body, my lungs smack the panic button and scream at my brain: HELLO? Suck in some oxygen, bitch! Then speak!
“Sorry,” I say sweetly. “I can’t hear you over the sound of your ego inflating.”
“Strange. You heard me perfectly fine when I said you needed a firm hand.”
“I have selective hearing. It filters out boring stuff and only tunes in when the conversation gets… stimulating.”
His smile is slow and dangerous. “Then I’ll be sure to keep you… stimulated.”
Body, we need to have a chat. No, not you, lungs—you’re trying.
You, vagina.
Me: We had an agreement. You were supposed to be on team self-respect, remember?
Vagina: But he said “swallow,” Petra. With that voice.
Me: No.
Vagina: But—
Me: Shut it. We’re in public. There’s a tiara-wearing dog five feet away.
I discreetly pinch my own thigh under the table, and ouch!
Nope. Not dreaming.
This is real. Bryce Sterling— my brother’s best friend, my teenage crush —is saying every filthy thing I’ve ever fantasized about… and somehow he knows exactly what buttons to press .
Which is unacceptable , because there are only two people aware of the full extent of my unholy Bryce Sterling fantasies: Me. And my vibrator.
He’s playing a game. That’s what this is. A twisted high-society chess match where seducing the chaos gremlin earns him good boy points with the well-mannered butler.
He’s distracting me. Manipulating me.
Well, not today, billionaire. But you can bet my little lady and I will be discussing your tactics later.
“Excuse me. Hana and I are having a very important girl talk. We’re analyzing the serious epidemic of billionaires with super teeny tiny… tax write-offs.”
I shoot him a sweet, innocent smile. “ What did you think I was gonna say?”
His nostrils flare. That’s right, Moneybags. Choke on it.
The servers swoop in with the next round of edible punishment. In one overly theatrical move, they lift the domes to reveal tiny bowls of lumpy beige sludge. This is what cottage cheese might look like if it spent six hours rotting on hot concrete.
“Ooooh!” Hana claps her hands together like an excited toddler. “Escamole! I heard Miss Muffy serves the most spectacular authentic Mexican delicacies.”
“Esca-what-the-hell?”
“Escamole! It’s the caviar of Mexico. This delicacy is the larvae and pupae of large black ants! Isn’t that the neatest thing?”
My stomach answers the question for me, and my esophagus tightens in self-defense.
“Too bad I’m full from the last course to dig into this bug buffet.”
“Stop!” Hana slaps my arm playfully. “You are cracking me up! ”
Once again, Nigel approaches Miss Muffy’s dish like it’s baby Jesus… and he’s trying to get an invite to the Last Supper. He takes a modest spoonful of the insect nursery, tastes it, then nods his approval. “Exquisite texture and seasoned as you like it, Miss Muffy.”
Only after the Maltese takes her first dainty lick does the room lift their spoons. I watch in horror as thirty absurdly rich humans cheerfully shovel insect offspring into their mouths like it’s Cocoa Puffs.
I put a small amount onto my spoon, examining… itty-bitty alien eggs? Rice that’s gone horribly wrong? The individual grains have a slightly translucent quality that reminds me of maggots. I see tiny black specks inside that I’m pretty sure are innocent little baby ant eyes staring back.
“Mmmmmmmm.” Hana’s moan is so explicit, it would get flagged on YouTube. “So divine! It’s… nutty and buttery and gooey—but, like… chunky.”
My stomach heaves.
That’s it. I’m going to vomit into this bowl.
And honestly? Nobody will notice. It’ll blend right in. They’d probably think it’s a garnish.
I set my spoon down in quiet surrender. “So what’s with the butler eating the dog’s food?” I ask because my mind needs the diversion .
“That’s billionaire safety protocol. He’s Muffy’s official taster. You know, in case someone tries to poison her. Only last week, there was this king—I forget which country, but somewhere with mountains—who almost died from an appetizer.”
“So the dog has bodyguards and a personal food tester. How relatable. ”
“I know, right! That’s how Fiona was able to secure this place for the wedding. The king had to cancel, so Casa Cashmere had an unexpected opening!” she sighs. “Fiona is always so fortunate with things like that!”
“Yep. His near-death experience is our gain. Total stroke of luck that we’re all here feasting on bugs and bird snot.”
“Fiona told me that Gavin lets her eat carbs. He’s so progressive! My prenup requires one weekly weigh-in with the family nutritionist and includes a whole appendix of acceptable food groups.”
She shovels another spoonful of ant larvae into her mouth with genuine enthusiasm, and I have no idea how to respond.
It just might be the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard.
Should I be planning her escape? Slipping her the number for a women’s shelter?
Is there a hotline for women trapped in dystopian marriages?
“What’s wrong, Pip?” Bryce asks, “I thought you were fearless.”
He nudges the bowl of ant baby tapioca looming on the table. It jiggles.
“I’ve done many questionable things in the name of proving a point, but voluntarily eating insect fetuses at a billion-dollar dinner party is where I draw the line.”
“I assumed you got off on dares.” His eyes twinkle with pure trouble. “I dare you to eat one bite.”
“Why would I torture myself?”
“Because if you don’t gag, I’ll stop correcting your etiquette for the rest of dinner.”
His relaxed expression infuriates me.
“And what do I get if I do gag?”
His gulp is audible. “Then we’ll have to spend the night exploring what else you enjoy choking on. ”
Okay, who the hell spiked the water with horny juice?
You know what? I’m calling his bluff.
I steal the spoon from his hand without a word. The metal is warm from his touch, and God help me, I feel it everywhere.
I scoop up a wriggling pile, forcing myself to look. The larvae glisten and shimmy under the chandelier light. Nightmare fuel. But if this is the price for a night tangled in Bryce Sterling’s lap? Pass the damn salt. I’ll lick the plate clean.
Because the way he’s looking at me? I really hope he’ll make good on it.
I shove the entire spoonful into my mouth. It’s warm. Slimy. And it pops. SOMETHING POPS!
My whole body jerks. My shoulders stiffen. My throat convulses.
Chew, Petra. CHEW.
I can’t.
There is no way in seven hells I’m swallowing this abomination.
With zero regard for propriety or manners, I lunge for the napkin in Bryce’s lap. My other hand lands on his muscular thigh for balance. I spit into the napkin as if survival depends on it.
I’m about to grab his water when I realize my grip is on his very firm—
Wait.