CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PETRA
GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER
Me: Quick poll: CAN YOU DIE FROM HAPPINESS??
Cam: Okay, spill.
Me: He played it. Our song. From my graduation party. The one we kissed to.
Katie: That was seven years ago!
Cam: Casual hookups don’t play meaningful songs, babe.
Me: Help. I think my heart’s doing that dumb thing again… Hoping.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE assume your respective positions. We will now begin the wedding rehearsal.”
Nigel announces it as a royal decree. You’d think that would snap everyone to attention, but nope. No one’s listening. We’re all too busy staring at the absurdly oversized luxury circus tent we’re standing in.
This tent isn’t just big. It’s obscene.
No joke—if a jumbo jet wanted to crash this ceremony, it could land inside and still have room to do a three-point turn.
The ceiling is vaulted like a cathedral.
White silk drapes billow dramatically, catching the ocean breeze.
And there are fifty-two crystal chandeliers, each one the size of a Honda Civic, sparkling as if somebody captured the sun and broke it into a million pieces.
I can’t look directly at them without squinting.
The lavish displays of white roses and peonies are as beautiful as they are boastful, screaming: We told you money was no object. Behind them, industrial AC units hum away, because no one’s makeup is going to melt off at tomorrow’s picture-perfect outdoor wedding. Not on Fiona’s watch.
Through the tent’s open archway, the ocean sprawls beyond the altar, as if Mother Nature is trying to photobomb this over-the-top production.
Nigel stands in the center of it all with his clipboard in hand, commanding an army of staff as if he’s directing a military operation. Which, let’s be honest, he basically is.
“Nigel,” I call out, “quick etiquette question: Will Miss Muffy’s ceremonial cushion be in silk or velvet?”
“Miss Von Cashmere has very specific preferences, Miss Brinkman. The burgundy velvet, positioned precisely six inches from the aisle for optimal viewing.”
“Right. And if someone accidentally sits in her spot? ”
“I believe you Americans have an expression about ‘finding out.’” The corner of his mouth twitches, and I swear I catch a glint of humor. “Now, Miss Brinkman, if you would kindly assume your position with the bridal party.”
I grin, because getting Nigel to crack even a microscopic smile is a personal victory. He produces a small silver bell from his jacket pocket.
PING! PING! PING!
“Casa Cashmere has hosted precisely one hundred and twenty-seven weddings,” he announces. “Each has proceeded with dignity and grace. We shall continue that tradition. First position, if you please. Mr. Echo shall stand in for Mr. Whitfield, who has yet to arrive.”
Fiona’s voice floats over from where she’s fussing with her rehearsal dress. “Daddy should be arriving soon! He’s always a little late because he’s, for sure, the busiest man ever. I mean, you should see his calendar.”
WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP.
A helicopter roars overhead, making the chandeliers rattle and sending rose petals flying like confetti.
“Ooh, maybe that’s him!” Hana squeals, clapping her hands.
I catch Fiona glitch for the barest second. Blink and you’d miss it. But I don’t miss much.
“Oh yes, probably!” she says with a beauty pageant smile.
Probably? The word triggers my internal alarm system, but I shut it down fast. New Petra no longer assumes the worst.
Nigel, unfazed by interruptions, continues, “Mr. Brinkman, Mr. Sterling, please demonstrate your entrance sequence from the eastern pavilion. That will signal the beginning of the ceremony. ”
I watch Bryce approach the altar behind my brother, both of them decked out in three-piece suits. Gavin looks sharp and self-assured in his charcoal gray, but Bryce outshines him in every way. Especially that navy suit, which brings his blue eyes to life.
Drown me in that ocean, please.
His jaw flexes, smiling slightly as he looks my way—like he’s remembering everything we did last night in vivid, skin-on-skin detail.
Yeah. Me too, Blue Eyes.
Off to the side, a woman starts playing a grand piano, the familiar notes of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” filling the air. Then a man joins in with his cello, weaving a melody that’s as serene as it is magical.
“Bridesmaids,” Nigel calls out, “please begin your procession.”
I smooth my hand over the lavender silk of my Prada sundress and follow Hana down the aisle, locked into the same slow-motion bridal zombie walk she’s performing.
Step. Pause. Smile. Repeat.
I glance up, and he’s looking at me. Not at the décor. Not at Gavin. At me.
And for one dizzy second, my breath catches. What if this was our wedding? What if he was waiting for me?
I’d be sobbing through winged eyeliner, overwhelmed with happiness. We’d present our own vows—real ones. I’d tell him he makes me feel like I’m worth choosing, and then he’d say he only sees the best parts of me, the ones that everybody else misses.
We’d kiss—a naughty, hungry lip-lock so hot and heavy the guests would blush and look away. Then we’d race to our luxury hotel suite and spend our entire honeymoon dining on room service and each other.
Quit torturing yourself, Petra. This will all be over soon .
I wish I could stop myself from hoping this was more than just a secret fling. But after last night, how can I not imagine being his for real?
Four thousand baby steps later, Hana and I position ourselves across the altar from Bryce and my brother.
Fiona appears at the top of the aisle on Echo’s arm, and the staff-turned-pretend-guests rise as Nigel says, “Now we shall witness the bride’s grand entrance.”
Today’s Echo ensemble is surprisingly toned down. Sure, the guy’s wearing purple leather pants vacuum-sealed to his legs and he has enough jewelry to open a pawn shop, but there’s no body glitter and his nipples are covered, so that’s practically black-tie for him.
Fiona clutches his arm as if he’s a status symbol. Her white rehearsal dress sparkles, and her makeup is impeccable. She’s stunning.
Witnessing her glow with happiness at Gavin waiting at the altar, I feel this strange twist in my stomach.
No warning bells. No fury.
Today, I am not the suspicious sister.
I’m a girl in love.
Fiona takes her place beside my brother, and it’s like they stepped right out of the pages of a wedding magazine—elegant and beaming.
The song ends, and Nigel strides to center stage, facing the audience. “And now,” he says, “the officiant would begin by saying, ‘We are gathered here today for a sacred celebration of unity—the joining of Gavin Brinkman and Fiona Whitfield in marriage.’”
I peer at Bryce, and he’s locked on to me. His stare doesn’t waver.
What if I could belong in his world?
There’s nothing physically stopping me from following him to New York. I could learn to be a society woman, couldn’t I? I survived being manhandled into couture by Sebastian Bellini. These fancy clothes barely even itch anymore.
And my tattoos? I mean, I love them, yeah, but I could remove a few. Play the part. For him.
Hell, I’ve got a blowout, been waxed from brow to bum, tried that weird bird snot soup, and even let a freaking dog tell me off! I could watch my language in public and learn to enjoy posh fundraisers, gallery openings, and weekend brunches.
I might have to kiss my law school dreams goodbye.
Marrying into his world means trading personal ambition for legacy management, so I wouldn’t be Petra the lawyer, I’d be Mrs. Sterling.
Still, I could champion legal aid clinics, homeless shelters, and help teenagers aging out of foster care.
I’d convince these billionaires to write checks bigger than their egos.
Bryce’s life is drowning him in expectations. What if I was his escape hatch? His safe harbor after brutal board meetings and family manipulation. The storm he could lose himself in when the Sterling name weighed on him like an anchor.
I could be the girl he comes undone for, not just in bed but in life .
In a single moment, the fantasy obliterates.
“I trust we’re not intruding on the festivities.”
Reginald Sterling. Bryce’s father.
He is a towering wall of power and intimidation—six feet of silver-haired authority wrapped in a custom Italian wool suit.
His ice-blue stare twists my stomach into knots.
Those eyes don’t just scan the room; they calculate with ruthless precision, quickly analyzing who’s an asset and who is a liability.
But it’s the woman beside him who turns my blood to ice .
Amanda Tenley is sickeningly, devastatingly perfect—a genetic lottery winner, an angel among mortals, so gorgeous she makes Fiona bland in comparison. Her honey-colored hair falls in flawless waves past her shoulders, and her soft-pink Chanel suit mirrors the soft tint of her lips.
My eyes dart to Bryce. He’s staring at them.
At her .
“Stop the run-through,” Gavin says, already working his way to them. “Mr. Sterling, what an honor that you could find time to attend our nuptials.”
Reginald shakes my brother’s hand. “The merger of the Whitfields and the Brinkmans? Wouldn’t miss it,” he says. His vulture gaze goes to Bryce. “Son, come give your girlfriend a proper hello. She’s traveled quite a distance to see you.”
Girlfriend? I don’t breathe.
Bryce’s eyes flick to me for a millisecond with a clear message. Panic.
I watch, in horror, as he walks over, leans in, and kisses Amanda on the cheek. My heart doesn’t just crack. It fucking implodes.
Nigel approaches with his usual diplomatic grace. “Mr. Sterling, always a pleasure to have you back at Casa Cashmere.”
“Ah, Nigel. Still running the estate like a Swiss watch, I see.”
“Doing what I can, sir.”
Reginald faces the guests and addresses them like he’s delivering a press release.
“Amanda’s mother no longer needed her care, and when I mentioned the wedding, she was simply desperate to see Bryce again. We thought it best to surprise everyone and come together. ”