CHAPTER FOURTEEN #3
I was his brief rebellion against a predetermined future. Nothing more.
***
Two hose-downs, three spin cycles, and one extremely targeted jet steam later… and apparently, I’m not done. I’m still at this damn spa. Next up on the itinerary? Gemstone massage.
Turns out my joke about being massaged by diamonds? Not a joke. Rich people really do that shit .
I’m gliding down a marble hallway in the fluffiest white robe I’ve ever worn, spa slippers squishing softly underfoot like tiny clouds hired to love me.
The floor is heated— heated —because billionaire’s feet should never be subjected to chilly floors.
But you know what? In my current blissed out state, I get it. I fully, shamefully get it.
Crystals on my ass? Bring ’em on.
Holy shit, my skin. I keep touching my arms like I’m molesting myself in public. Massive PDA. They’re so smooth and silky. What the hell was in that mud?
Against all odds, I feel surprisingly… zen. Like maybe I could keep it together for more than six consecutive minutes.
Except for one minor issue. My vagina is holding a grudge. Not angry anymore, just… buzzing. She’s a well-tuned engine rumbling at a red light. The throbbing is definitely a spa rush. NOT for the person we refuse to think about.
That’s my story. I’m sticking to it.
My mind wanders as I walk toward the Crystal Healing Wing.
I wonder why the ultra-rich have gemstones rubbed all over their bodies. Are they trying to absorb wealth through their pores? I’ll have to ask Hana.
That thought triggers a memory—me on the balcony, Bryce’s ruby ring on my finger. The same band that flew off mid-imagined proposal while I stood there daydreaming like a lovesick teenager. Why did I ever think him picking that ring meant something?
Oh shit, I still need to find that.
For a hot second, I consider leaving it.
Some groundskeeper will stumble across it and be able to retire to a nice cottage in Tuscany.
But then reality puts me in a headlock—it’s probably on loan, because that’s what high society does.
They borrow from designers, then return everything like it’s a damn library.
I’m assuming after this trip, all the jewelry and clothes will be returned to Sebastian in some kind of highbrow fairy godmother situation. Midnight will strike, and then Cinderella will be back in her rags.
If that’s the case, Mr. Bellini can expect a few strategic crumbs in the designer pockets. Or better yet, I’ll hide a sardine sandwich in that ridiculous beaded clutch. Let him explain that aroma to his next privileged princess.
I snort out loud picturing his mortified expression.
“This is simply unacceptable!” Fiona’s voice is a chainsaw slicing through the peaceful aura of the spa.
I spot a service door ajar, and my eye catches a blur of platinum blonde. My fluffy slippers don’t make a sound as I tiptoe closer. From this angle, I’m able to see through the gap.
Jackpot.
Fiona’s inside, wearing a spa robe and waving her arms so wildly she might actually achieve lift-off. Across from her—praise be to the spa gods—Nigel is back in his tux, not a glittery chest hair in sight.
“Why am I just hearing about this now? You said everything was approved,” she hisses.
Nigel straightens his tie. “Miss Whitfield, I understand your frustration, but the payment authorization has been declined. The account seems to be… temporarily inaccessible.”
“Declined? That’s impossible! My father owns half of California! There must be some kind of error. Run it again, or call someone… or, I don’t know, do whatever it is you people do to fix these things.”
Oh, wow. You people . Okay, Miss Beverly Hills 9021-No-Manners.
“I have personally attempted to process your outstanding charges on three separate occasions. Each attempt has been rejected due to what appears to be an account freeze at the financial institution. We have dialed the emergency billing contact you provided, but regrettably…” He pauses.
“The line redirects to an automated voicemail system. This is extraordinarily unprecedented at Casa Cashmere.”
“Well, obviously your payment processing is broken,” Fiona snaps.
Nigel’s diplomatic smile is a work of art.
“Our financial infrastructure, madam, has executed flawless transactions for five decades. I can state with certainty that this is not a processing error. The sudden vacancy you filled, due to the King of Liechtenstein’s unexpected and regrettable illness, is an agreeable arrangement for both of us. ”
Translation: She swooped in like a vulture when some actual royalty’s dream vacation was cancelled due to medical drama. How very Fiona of her.
Nigel continues dryly, “As long as your expedited reservation is promptly paid in full, it won’t tarnish your father’s distinguished reputation here.”
“Ugh,” she huffs. “I’ll call Daddy right now and fix this ridiculous misunderstanding. But you cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. The last thing I need is some terrible rumor ruining my magical week.”
“Certainly. Casa Cashmere’s sterling reputation relies upon discretion. However, I must clarify our position with transparency—we provide extraordinary experiences. We do not bankroll them. Especially one hundred-million-dollar matrimonial celebrations.”
“ I’m aware ,” Fiona says through clenched teeth.
My detective brain starts firing on all cylinders: Wedding mysteriously fast-tracked by eight weeks? Yep.
Sketchy chemistry with Echo the Walking Art Project? Double yep.
Prenup weirdness that’s got my brother snippier than usual? Triple yep.
And suddenly Princess Perfect’s trust fund has apparently evaporated into thin air?
This whole clusterfuck smells fishier than a seafood restaurant dumpster in August.
“If direct contact with your father proves unsuccessful, perhaps Mr. Brinkman could provide alternative financial arrangements—”
“NO! Gavin cannot find out about any of this! He’s…” She stiffens. “He’s already overwhelmed with his company affairs. I’ll sort this out myself. Give me twenty-four hours.”
Hold up. Gavin’s clueless? Did Fiona just crawl out of a cave, or does she really believe my brother—Mr. “I Can Fix Anything With a Spreadsheet and a Stern Glare”—is okay being sidelined when there’s a crisis? Nothing gives him a bigger hard-on than swooping in with his cape and solving a problem.
If she’s not going to tell him, I sure as fuck am.
“Very well, but should this financial irregularity persist beyond tomorrow’s deadline, Casa Cashmere will need to terminate your wedding ceremony.”
“I will sell my dead grandmother’s entire vintage perfume collection before that happens,” Fiona whispers, her voice cracking as she swipes at tears streaming down her contoured cheeks. “You’ll have your money. This wedding is not getting cancelled.”
Holy crap. I’ve never heard Fiona sound anything but smugly superior. She doesn’t crack under pressure. She doesn’t do desperate.
“If you’ll pardon me, it is time for Miss Muffy to be retrieved from her hot stone massage. She requires her blow-dry appointment before this evening’s dinner service.”
Shitshitshitshitshit! Nigel’s walking straight toward the door—toward me.
Glancing down the long marble hallway, I know I’m screwed. I’ll never make it around the corner without being spotted. I throw myself into a nearby door, praying to whatever gods protect nosy bitches that it’s just a boring linen closet.
Please be towels. Please be towels. Don’t be a room full of naked oil barons getting their balls shaved.
The door closes with a click, and I find myself in a large dimly lit treatment room that is… blissfully empty. Thank you, universe.
My mind spins with unanswered questions. Why did Fiona bump up the wedding timeline? What’s the rush? And if she’s hiding a bomb this big from Gavin—money stuff, wedding stuff, whatever-the-hell-this-is stuff—what other skeletons is she cramming into her already overflowing Prada closet?
“Excuse me, is someone there?”
My wretched soul leaves my body… I know that voice.
In the dim corner of the room, barely visible in the soft lighting, a figure lies face-down on a massage table.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Bryce.
“I’ve been waiting for my appointment,” he says, shifting like he’s about to look up.
Panic hijacks my nervous system.
“Ah! Nyet! No moving, da?” I bark in a disguised accent. I sprint to the table, shoving his head down into the face cradle. “Ees very, very bad for ze spine vhen you move during preparation of muscles!”
What accent is this? German? Transylvanian?
Nope. It’s Oksana. The Russian wax technician who ripped the soul from my bikini line earlier. Her voice must’ve burned itself into my subconscious, along with the smell of hot sugar and the phrase, “You vill not cry!”
He hesitates. “You’re my masseuse?”
“Yes,” I say, still doing The Accent. “She—I am late. I come here. You relax.”
I must be doing a pretty good Oksana impression, because Bryce moans out an “okay” and settles in.
This is catastrophically stupid. Like entering a flamethrower contest while doused in gasoline.
“Could you focus on my glutes?” Bryce requests casually. “They’re incredibly tight from last night’s… exertions. I think I may have overextended myself.”
Oh, did you now?
I peel the towel down just enough to reveal the glorious, unfairly sculpted ass I know intimately well. “Da, glutes is important muscle group. I vill make loose for you, no problem.”
My hands hover over his skin. This is where I should run—where any sane person would flee.
But apparently, sane is not what I am anymore.
My palms sink into him, and—yep. There go my girly bits. I bite my lip so hard, I nearly give myself a piercing .
Bryce lets out a low, satisfied groan, and my thighs tighten instinctively, every dirty memory from last night plays in high-def across my eyeballs.
No, focus! I must channel my inner Oksana—aim for torture instead of pleasure, keep this professional, and get the hell out of here before he realizes the woman massaging his naked ass is the same one he’s ignored all day.
This plan is foolproof.