CHAPTER NINETEEN #2
“You took advantage of my little sister! She always followed you around like a love-sick puppy, and you knew it. But I told myself, ‘It’s Bryce, my best friend. He would never touch the one person I’d burn the world down to protect.
’ No fucking wonder Petra cracked at the rehearsal.
She had just found out who you really are. ”
His eyes find mine, and all the built-up trust I’ve earned combusts.
“It’s not what you think.”
“What I know is you’re a scheming piece of garbage who’s been playing everyone around you! How many lies, Bryce? How many fucking lies are there?”
“I love her, Gavin.” The confession rips out of me. “I’m in love with Petra.”
Gavin stops cold, then lunges toward me. His finger jabs into my chest hard enough to bruise.
“LOVE? You think what you did is LOVE?”
CRACK.
His fist connects with my jaw before I can register. The impact sends me staggering backward, my head snapping to the side as the taste of copper floods my mouth. Pain explodes across my face.
“You have no fucking idea what love is! You don’t treat people you love like this!”
There’s no defending myself. I don’t fight back. I don’t raise my hands. Don’t even straighten my stance.
Because I deserve it.
He’s right.
“I was trying to protect—”
“Bullshit!” he shouts, shaking his hand. “You destroyed her! You destroyed me! And then you call it love? For ten fucking years, you were my brother. I let you in my house. Near my family. ”
“Gavin, I didn’t plan it. She just—”
“Don’t you dare say she just happened to you, like you’re the victim. You’re not some poor bastard who tripped and fell into her bed. You chose this path, so own it.”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. My entire world is unraveling.
“I’ll pretend you’re still my best man tomorrow because I refuse to upset Fiona any further. But make no mistake, after the wedding, we’re done. And if you want to keep walking this earth, you’ll stay the hell away from Petra.”
He heads for the door, yanks it open, and pauses in the doorway.
“Your father’s right—you leaving Heartvest is the best move for this company. We don’t need someone who betrays the people he claims to care about. Enjoy your new gig with your old man. You’ll fill his CEO shoes perfectly.”
The door slams, and the truth swallows me whole. He’s right. I am my father.
***
Petra’s room is warm, as if the air has yet to realize she’s no longer here.
I throw the door closed and press my forehead against the cool wood, my breath coming in sharp bursts. The silence in here isn’t just quiet—it’s fucking vindictive . Like every molecule of air knows I’m a worthless coward.
What the hell am I doing here?
I should be across the hall right now, playing the dutiful soon-to-be fiancé with Amanda. Discussing wedding venues and pretending my dick doesn’t go limp at the thought of touching anyone who isn’t Petra fucking Brinkman.
Instead, I’m clinging to the last remnants of her presence. If I stand here long enough, maybe—just maybe—I’ll hear her call me “Moneybags” one more time.
“You have no fucking idea what love is.”
Gavin’s words reverberate in my skull, each syllable a crushing weight on my shoulders. Maybe he’s right. Maybe what’s eating me alive isn’t love—it’s power. Control. Owning her like she’s my rich fuck-boy obsession.
But if that’s true, why does my chest feel like it’s been hollowed out with a rusty spoon? Why does the thought of never seeing her red lips curve into a smirk again make me want to demolish this entire goddamn estate with my bare hands?
I see the closet doors cracked open and move toward them in a trance.
Every single piece Sebastian Bellini selected for her is still there. Hanging in formation like a fashion graveyard.
She didn’t take any of it. Not the midnight Prada that made her look scandalous. The Valentino that hugged her curves so brazenly I nearly came in my pants. She could’ve sold any one of these pieces for six months’ rent.
But she didn’t. She walked away from it all. Because to her, this world of wealth and privilege is tainted.
She only wore these—for me. For the part I asked her to play.
To try and belong in a place that did everything it could to spit her out.
And worse—I let it happen. I held the door open for her transformation.
Watched her wear my world’s expectations like a straightjacket.
Not once did I tell her the version of her I loved didn’t need fixing.
My hand moves without permission, drawn to the crimson silk dress she wore that first night we made love. As it slips through my fingers, soft as sin, I swear I can feel her in it—her arched back, teasing words, hands in my hair, heartbeat against my palms.
That night she told me she preferred the man who wasn’t proper when he touched her. There were no games, no coyness, when she whispered, “I want you, Bryce.”
It was Petra, brave and burning, saying exactly what she wanted.
Me.
And I gave it to her.
I made her moan my name until her voice gave out. Pressed her into the mattress and worshipped every inch of her. Told her she was extraordinary, all the while knowing I was going to leave her.
Where was my spine to fight for her?
I stood there while my father called her a whore and Gavin glared like I’d just kicked his sister into traffic.
Jesus. I’m a fucking monster.
Something flutters from the dress like a dying moth—a cream-colored notecard with “SB” embossed in gold.
My hands shake as I read the venomous script:
Miss Brinkman—This dress requires serious architectural support given your…
limitations. Enclosed undergarments are mandatory.
Additionally, professional hair management is crucial—your current situation resembles a trash panda more than a dinner guest. Kindly do not humiliate Mr. Sterling’s investment in your appearance.
—Sebastian Bellini, Wardrobe Wizar d
The paper crumples in my fist so hard my knuckles go bone-white. But there are more cards scattered on the closet floor like landmines. I grab another one, then another, my horror multiplying with each poisonous line:
Your excessive tattoos are inappropriate for polite society. Concealment is mandatory.
Avoid discussing your… origin story with legitimate guests. Silence is your most flattering accessory.
The provided body shapers will create the illusion of proper birthing hips. Wear them.
Each line drips with disdain—designed to chip away at her confidence and remind her she doesn’t belong.
A godforsaken pile of them.
And she read every single one.
She stood in front of this pretentious mirror, covered in chiffon and judgement, and tried to make herself smaller. More palatable. Less… her.
All for me.
I rip up the notes, stumble out of the closet, my knees buckling, and collapse onto her empty bed.
I fed her to the wolves with a fucking bow tied around her neck.
She still chose me. She still fought. Still smiled. Still wore the dress and played the part and stood beside me when the whole fucking world tried to tear her down.
Petra Brinkman loved me with her whole damn heart.
And I broke it.
Twice.
Gavin’s right. I don’t know what love is. Because if I loved her, I would have told everyone to go to hell in that rehearsal tent. I would have grabbed Petra’s hand and walked out with her, consequences be damned.
She wanted the man behind the Sterling mask. The real me. The one who fumbled through real feelings and made unholy sounds when her mouth touched my skin. The guy who forgot what shame was when he was inside her.
And I gave her that man for a few stolen nights, then let my father slip the leash back on me like I’d never strayed.
The engagement ring is a lead weight in my jacket. Thirty-five carats of family duty that I’ll slide onto Amanda’s finger tomorrow while cameras flash and my soul shrivels. I’ll do it because Sterlings don’t break tradition. We sacrifice our hearts on the family altar and call it honorable.
Petra will be back in LA. Hopefully covering up that broken heart tattoo I gave her. If there’s any justice in this cruel, fucked-up world, she’ll finally realize loving me was the worst decision she ever made.
She deserves more than a weak man who treats her like a dirty secret.
She’s better off without me.
The door opens abruptly.
“Ah—Mr. Sterling.” Nigel’s voice tightens with surprise. “Forgive the intrusion. I was under the impression the room had been vacated. I shall return and complete the packing at a more convenient time.”
My voice comes out sandpaper-rough. “She’s really gone?”
“Regrettably, yes sir. I arranged Miss Brinkman’s departure myself.” He reaches into his waistcoat pocket. “She did ask me to return this.”
The ruby ring .
The one I picked because it was her in gemstone form—that exact shade of fuck-you red she paints on her lips every morning.
I hesitate, breath caught halfway up my throat as I reach for it.
The center stone is enormous—bloodred and pulsing like it knows all my secrets.
My fingertips trace the halo of diamonds encircling it, like stars being pulled into its irresistible orbit.
Because that’s what Petra does—burns so bright she makes everything else look dim by comparison.
“Apparently, it slipped from her finger while she was on the balcony. She was quite distressed.”
Two rings in one day.
One I’m being forced to give. And one I chose with my heart.
The universe has a sick sense of irony.
Nigel shifts toward the doorway then stops. “Mr. Sterling, might I speak candidly?”
I give him a curt nod.
“Would you permit me to examine this momentarily?” His white-gloved fingers gesture toward the ruby.
I drop the ring into his outstretched palm. He rotates the stone beneath the warm glow of the lamp, and it transforms into liquid fire, casting crimson reflections across his lined face.