CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
“This painting is a total fairy tale. I hope my wedding portrait is that magical. Though maybe with a bit more fabric? You know, for my fiancé. He’s not one to go shirtless, even at the beach or when he’s all sweaty from… um, marital activities. At least that’s what his assistant told me.”
I’m relieved when she doesn’t pause for air, just barrels forward.
“Today is going to be exquisite! Cultural activities followed by spa pampering? I simply cannot imagine anything more perfect .”
“I’m less thrilled about the part where a stranger waxes my lady bits in the name of relaxation.”
“Oh my gosh, Petra, you’re so funny and naturally gorgeous. You have that effortless beauty that takes the rest of us hours and a whole team of professionals to achieve. Your bone structure… is goals.”
I pause, mentally bracing for the fine print: “for someone with your vibe,” or “if you’re into quirky looks”—the usual sparkle-coated stab that girls like her deliver with a smile and a blowout.
But it doesn’t come.
Hana keeps grinning at me as if I’m the Mona Lisa with better lipstick. Pure sincerity.
Well, shit. I’m so used to dealing with mean girls and backhanded compliments, I forgot honesty was still a thing .
“Maybe you can teach me how to enjoy all this spa nonsense,” I say, surprising myself.
Hana claps her hands and squeals. “YES! I’ll be your spa spirit guide! Trust me, I won’t steer you wrong!”
“Just so we’re clear, though—if you try to get me to wax my butthole, I’m out.”
She laughs so hard she snorts. “No butt stuff. Got it!”
And like that, the pressure in my chest releases a little.
Until—
“What on earth is this?” Gavin yells from across the room.
I turn to see him standing next to Echo, hands on his hips, glaring at the painting.
“Fi, there is no way in hell this is getting hung in our house.”
I raise my hand. “I’ll take it! For my bathroom. It’ll really class up the whole dropping-a-deuce experience.”
Gavin turns and levels me with a glare so sharp it could carve a ham.
I shrug. “Kidding. Mostly.”
Something inside me shifts as I soak in the glorious absurdity of this moment—my mortified brother, Hana’s contagious joy, Echo’s insane artistic passion, and even Fiona’s fake-ass pout.
I’m in literal paradise, surrounded by wealth so obscene it feels ripped from a cartoon, and the people in it are somehow more outlandish. Bryce can take his emotional walls and his careful distance and shove them up his obscenely tight ass.
I’ve got three more days in this overpriced wonderland. Three more days of ridiculous luxury and watching rich people lose their collective minds.
And I’m going to enjoy every fucking minute of it. Starting now.
** *
Memo to future me: A Brazilian wax after a night of earth-shattering orgasms is a death wish.
There should be a flashing neon sign outside the spa that reads: Warning: If you’ve had a billionaire bang-a-thon and are sore in places on, around, over, under, and in your downstairs, then skip the waxing today, honey.
My aesthetician is about to apply another steaming eucalyptus devil cloth on my lady bits. Sure, the pain is a welcome distraction from Mr. Emotionally Stunted, but at this rate, I’ll be rolling out of here in a wheelchair.
The spa at Casa Cashmere is not your average spa day destination—it’s a freaking compound of luxury pampering.
Tucked away from the main estate, this place is a quick, serene walk through impeccable gardens with bamboo groves and koi ponds.
Inside are arched doorways, the soothing melody of waterfalls, and staff in all white floating to and fro like Botoxed angels.
Every surface shines as if it’s been blessed by the patron saint of OCD (Saint Lysol, perhaps?). I wouldn’t be surprised if my next treatment involved soaking in a tub of hundred-dollar bills while receiving a foot scrub with actual diamonds.
Inside our private suite, the temperature is cranked up to somewhere between a hot yoga class and Death Valley. I’m sprawled out, covered from head to toe in what feels like congealed coffee grounds—otherwise known as volcanic mud—wrapped up tighter than a Chipotle burrito.
I’m slow cooking in my own juices, when one of those ridiculous cucumber slices makes a break for it, sliding off my left nipple and making a slow, dramatic descent down my boob.
Hana lies on the table next to mine. She’s a mud-slicked cocoon lounging on a cloud, smiling and humming— humming!—a s if she’s already achieved Zen-master-level enlightenment.
“Oh my gosh, I can literally sense the stress melting out of my cellular structure,” she sighs.
“Really? All I feel is clogged hair follicles and a mild case of claustrophobia.”
Hana lets out a string of soft giggles. “Oh, Petra, please stop! You’re making me crack my mud wrap.”
“Girl, I’m one exhale away from splitting open like a dollar-store pinata.”
She snorts. “You’re hilarious.”
“No. I’m suffering.”
“Can you believe this place exists? I’ve wanted to come here since I was twelve. It’s so heavenly, exactly how I imagined it would be!”
“If having your lady parts brutalized by a woman who looks like she could arm wrestle a bear, then yeah, heavenly. Pass the painkillers.”
She gasps, laughing. “Do you think Oksana enjoyed it? I mean—she made direct eye contact while ripping. That’s… intimate.”
“She kept giving a thumbs-up before each pull, saying, ‘Vis vill hurt!’” I say, slipping into a terrible Russian accent.
“Petra! ”
“Seriously, if Oksana can do that to my landing strip, imagine if the CIA recruited her—we’d all be doomed. She’d wax the nuclear codes right out of people.”
We both explode into giggles, the kind that makes my stomach ache in the best way.
For a split second, I’m hit with that familiar rush, the one I only get when I’m with Katie and Camila.
That sweet spot of a friendship where I can let my freak flag fly, say the wildest damn thing, and never worry about being judged.
I wonder about Hana. I really hope Fiona is the type of bestie who lets her be her true self.
“Okay, real talk time,” I say, angling my head to her. “What’s your actual dream? And don’t say radiant skin or world peace.”
She sighs. “I’ve always dreamed of experiencing love like you see in K-dramas.
Where two people are so connected they can feel each other’s heartbreak across oceans.
Rain-soaked confessions, a dramatic slow-motion forehead kiss before the train pulls away, that moment when he cups your face and says you’re his entire universe…
I’m a sucker for that stuff. It’s stupid. ”
Her words trigger a weird discomfort—my emotional shield goes up.
I’m too cynical for this gushy crap, aren’t I?
I’m locked and loaded with a dozen sarcastic remarks, but honestly…
I want that too. I want Bryce to look at me like I’m his whole damn world.
I’d love for him to take in every chaotic, unhinged part of me—and not just tolerate it, but want it. To choose me.
No, this is about Hana. I focus back on her, if nothing else but to avoid confessing my pathetic unrequited love story.
“So… how did you go from ‘epic soulmates crying in the rain’ to signing a marriage contract with someone who witnessed electricity getting invented? ”
For the first time since we’ve met, Hana falters—her sunshiney face dims. She avoids my gaze, staring up at the ornate ceiling instead.
“It’s what’s expected,” she says quietly. “And that movie kind of love isn’t real. It’s fun to dream, but it’s silly. And my family always tells me to get my head out of the clouds.”
“Screw that,” I say, because somebody needs to. “Love is real. And this is your life we’re talking about.”
“My parents had an arranged marriage,” Hana continues.
“Only a thirteen-year age difference, unlike my fifty. And they’ve built this calm, respectful partnership.
Mom insists that’s far superior to passionate, emotional relationships because it endures.
And Daddy says this marriage is a brilliant strategic move.
My family’s portfolio will grow thirty percent after the merger, so that’s good for everyone. ”
The silence stretches between us, filled by the rhythmic whisper of waves and gentle trickle of water over smooth stones beyond the windows.
“Ah yes, love—brought to you by spreadsheets and generational wealth.”
“Joke all you want, but…” Hana’s voice catches slightly. “I cannot disappoint my family. My fiancé? He’s… decent. Older, sure, but very kind. And I need to be happy because that’s more than most people get.”
I study her expression through the steam. This woman has built her whole identity around pleasing others. Trading her happily ever after for a portfolio marriage. And the way she talks about her family’s expectations? As if the words “duty” and “desire” are interchangeable.
Holy shit! Bryce is trapped in the same duty-bound prison. Born into tradition. Raised for duty. Groomed to lead .
Unlike Hana, he’s expected to not just marry, but also be the future head of his entire family legacy. A goddamn financial dynasty that influences markets globally. The pressure Hana feels from her parents? I bet Bryce feels that multiplied by a trillion.
Of course he could only offer one night.
That’s all I ever could be to him.
His life isn’t about what he actually wants—it’s about what he’s allowed to want. And a working-class bartender with a smart mouth? Not a chance I’m on the pre-approved list.
I have to live with the fact that for a single magical evening, I got to see the man under the polished blueprint. The version of Bryce who let his hair get messy and his hands get reckless. The part of him that isn’t the composed heir apparent everyone expects.
He looked at me like I was the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Stop torturing yourself, Petra. That hint of something, that flash of connection—it’s meaningless. His life is mapped out, a path he’s locked on to, and there’s no me in it.