CHAPTER EIGHT #3
That is not his wallet. Not a phone in his pocket. Not a bonus breadstick tucked under his pants for later.
Our eyes lock, and in that split-second, I get it.
Me: Holy shit. He’s as turned on as I am.
Vagina: Told you so.
Me: Not. Now .
This isn’t a power play. Not some distract Petra game. He’s very aroused by whatever the hell this is between us.
And the proof under my palm is wood big enough to build a canoe with.
“Bryce, darling!” Fiona’s voice slices through our tension. “When can we expect Amanda to join us this week? I enjoy her company so much.”
I snatch my hand away from Bryce’s lap so fast I nearly dislocate my shoulder.
Amanda. The woman he’s going to marry.
Bryce goes rigid, his warmth turning to stone. That nervous tic starts up—tap-tap-tap against his thigh where my fingers were moments ago.
“Sadly, Amanda is unable to make it,” he says with practiced politeness. “Her mother continues to need her assistance with recovery. But she sends her warm wishes.”
“It’s probably for the best,” she agrees with a dismissive wave. “When you get engaged, we wouldn’t want her to be jealous that your wedding can’t be at Casa Cashmere.”
When they get engaged?
I thought they already were. At the gala, his mother definitely implied it.
My mind pinballs between confusion and clarity. The flirting. The innuendo. The gifts. He’s been doing all this while he has a girlfriend back home. A girlfriend he’s on the verge of proposing to.
And then—like a brick to the face—I remember the joke I made earlier to Sebastian at my fitting. The one about being Bryce’s mistress.
Did he take that seriously? Is that what this is ?
Oh God.
That’s why he arranged our rooms to be next to each other. Not because of proximity or convenience. No. It was logistics. Privacy. Strategy.
A fucking affair.
I glance around the opulent dining room, taking in the sea of polished, powerful guests. This is how their world works—wealthy, restless people locked in loveless marriages made for money, image, and legacy.
They play the part in public, then scratch the itch in private. With someone reckless. Someone forbidden. Someone forgettable.
Someone like me.
Is that what Fiona’s doing too?
My gaze darts around the dining area, searching for the lanky man in tight leather pants. He’s conveniently not present (same as Bryce’s conscience) .
The one percent understands how to cover their tracks. How to lie with a smile and a napkin on their lap. How to raise a toast with one hand and stab you in the back with the other.
The thought makes me ill.
I flirt. I tease. I joke. But this? This is not a game I signed up for.
He’s got a girlfriend. I’ve got a line. And I don’t cross it.
And I sure as hell will not be a pleasure toy for a bored billionaire.
“Still, it’s sad,” Fiona chatters on. “Amanda will be missed. She always makes things more fun when it’s the four of us. But it’s nice making new friends too, right Petra?”
I’m so done with the lies. My brother and I both deserve better. He’s a good man, and I won’t sit by and watch Fiona cheat her way down the aisle .
I lean forward, elbows planted firmly on the table (screw it) , and the dam breaks.
“Ya know, speaking of new friends. Somebody is missing from this dinner party,” I say accusingly. “Fiona, where’s that guy I saw you with earlier?”
Her smile doesn’t just falter—it malfunctions . “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? That wasn’t you with the artistic, Jack Sparrow–looking dude? I was sure it was you, but hey, maybe there’s another platinum blonde heiress wandering this castle.”
“How funny you are, Petra!” she exclaims, her voice soaring like a helium-filled balloon ready to pop.
“She’s the absolute funniest!” Hana chimes in, her head bobbing so frantically I can hear her diamond earrings clacking against her jawline.
“It’s not a joke. It’s what I saw.”
Gavin sets his fork down—hard. “Fi, what is she talking about?”
I part my lips, ready to deliver the killing blow—to describe in vivid detail how his bride-to-be was practically glued to another man—when I feel it.
Heat. Pressure. Skin against skin.
Bryce’s caress curled around my bare thigh, his palm scorching through the high slit of my dress. His eyes lock with mine—a clear warning. Stop talking. Don’t make a scene.
Fat chance, buddy.
But then—God—his fingers sweep upward, tracing delicate patterns on my inner thigh, inching higher with devastating precision. My entire body liquefies on the spot, muscles turning to warm honey. The dining room dims at the edges as all my blood rushes south to follow his tapered touch.
What was I saying? Those things with… letters? How do they work again?
My legs part slightly of their own volition.
Wait. What the actual hell am I doing?
I slam my thighs shut with the force of a Venus flytrap, nearly crushing his fingers in the process. My knee knocks against the table hard enough to rattle the crystal. Miss Muffy lets out an indignant yap from her throne.
I toss Bryce a look that could freeze tequila: Touch me again, and you’ll be eating escamole larvae through a straw.
“Petra, how could you?” Fiona gasps. Tears—actual, glistening tears—well in her eyes. “You’ve ruined the surprise!”
I’m sorry, the what now?
My brain screeches to a halt like a cartoon character leaving skid marks.
Fiona presses her napkin delicately to the corner of one eye. “Miss Muffy, would it be acceptable to present my surprise ahead of schedule? It seems the secret is out.”
The Maltese gives a crisp, pointed bark.
Nigel translates. “Miss Muffy graciously permits Miss Whitfield to begin her presentation ahead of the planned schedule. Send in the special guest!”
The ballroom doors fly open, and through a cloud of literal smoke, in saunters… Mystery Man himself.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Nigel announces, “the renowned performance artist and painter… Echo.”
He struts forward, straight to Miss Muffy, and lowers himself in front of her throne in a deep, sweeping bow. Then, he lifts her paw and kisses it.
“Your grace,” he says solemnly. “It’s an honor.”
Hana squeals quietly. “Oh my gosh—it’s ECHO!
He’s the hottest up-and-coming artist in the world!
Billionaires literally fight over him! The Rockefellers offered him their summer chateau just to attend their anniversary, and the Sultan of Brunei sent his private jet filled with rare ghost orchids, hoping to have him perform at his granddaughter’s sweet sixteen! ”
Oh fuck.
This is the nutjob from the art show at Bryce’s mother’s house. The guy who stripped down to his skivvies and had rainbow paint poured over him like a human sundae.
Echo’s gaze sweeps across the banquet area, making intense eye contact with each guest. “Lovers of beauty with elevated taste, I am humbled to reveal my purpose at this most exquisite gathering!”
He lifts his bejeweled hands toward the ceiling, and light dances off his rings matching the sparkle in his smile. His grin is wide and full of creative glee as he commands the room like a maestro.
“For the next glorious week, I shall be creating a SPECIAL COLLECTION inspired by the transcendent union of Fiona and Gavin! A collection that captures the very essence of their love story—LIGHT and DARKNESS! LOVE and CHAOS! The duality of souls merging into one magnificent entity!”
The room bursts into wildly unearned applause. Fucking rich people.
Fiona stands. “We’re also thrilled to announce that following our ceremony, there will be a special art charity auction featuring Echo’s new collection! All proceeds will benefit homeless seagulls in Venice Beach, ensuring they receive fresh caviar daily!”
She turns to my brother. “Darling, do you like my surprise?”
“It’s incredible. You never cease to amaze me.” he says, pulling her into a kiss.
“Isn’t that just so Fiona?“ Hana whispers. “Always thinking of those less fortunate. Especially the ones with feathers. Did you know that Fiona basically discovered Echo? She has an eye for talent.”
Ugh. I was wrong. God, even saying that makes my soul itch.
But something still feels off. This guy gives me major slimeball vibes. If I were bartending and he walked in, I’d peg him as the douchebag who orders complicated cocktails, hits on everything that moves, and leaves his number instead of a tip.
“SILENCE!” Echo suddenly cries out. “The muse strikes—I must listen!”
He sways as if he’s channeling a ghost from the Renaissance.
“There’s an energy here,” he whispers. “Raw and ripe with contradiction. Someone in this room and I were passionate lovers in a past life. I sense it.”
“This is exciting!” Hana squeezes my arm. “His last muse was a Monegasque princess! The paintings he created of her are now worth millions!”
Echo prowls around the table, extending fingers as if feeling invisible currents in the air. “She burns like a fever!” he declares. “She defies gravity with her spirit! She carries divinity and decay in equal measure!”
He takes hold of my chair.
Please, fuck no.
“Her. ”
He drops to one knee and kisses my hand—he clings to it. Lips pressed, lingering as if he’s trying to draw inspiration through osmosis.
“You are my muse. Fire and frenzy. Sex and envy. Hunger and absolution !”
The room gasps before applauding again. Hana is hyperventilating with excitement.
I look to Bryce, hoping for a lifeline. But all I get is buttoned-up rage.
His eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that had teased and tormented me all evening—turn to arctic ice. His jaw flexes hard, the muscle in his cheek ticking with restrained fury. Tension radiates off him in waves—dark, coiled, and aimed solely at me.
He’s mad… at me ?
Why? I didn’t ask to be Echo’s muse.
And Bryce is the cheating asshole who’s engaged. What the hell gives him the right to be angry?
I thought I understood Bryce Sterling—beneath all that wealth and family legacy. I thought he was better than this world of smoke and mirrors. But this man, whom I’ve measured against all others, is nothing but a beautiful lie.