CHAPTER TWENTY
PETRA
Ow. My skull pounds. Where am I?
There’s a tiny construction crew jackhammering into my eyeballs. Everything hurts, and my mouth tastes like I licked the floor of a cantina.
Wait. Did I FaceTime Bryce? Oh hell. It’s all flooding back.
Me, drunk off my ass on bottom-shelf tequila. Me tearing into him about his sleazy betrayal. And then… Crap! My phone.
Why didn’t I simply end the call? Why did I have to go full drama queen and launch my phone into the ocean?
I try to sit up and immediately want to die. Everything is so goddamn bright. My eyelids hurt. How is that a thing? The bed, the walls, and carpeting are blinding. Even the stupid bathrobe I’m wearing is practically glowing.
Again it hits me—I have no idea where I am. More importantly, where are my clothes? I’m dressed in white, surrounded by beaming white walls, and there are mysterious voices calling from beyond .
The loud chatter from the other room grows to a fever pitch. Multiple conversations layer over each other like chaotic TikTok videos all playing at the same time. My hungover brain starts clawing at the walls, begging for a mute button.
Everything’s too loud. Too white. Like heaven turned up to eleven.
Am I dead? Did I drink my way to the eternal happy hour in the sky?
My legs are limp noodles as I stagger out of the bedroom, leaning on the wall for support. Gravity is not my friend. I enter the main room.
Fuck. Me. Sideways. Not only am I dead… I’m in hell.
Because this is Sebastian Bellini’s Glam Squad Headquarters.
Sunlight spills through the massive ocean-view windows. Think, Petra, think. I'm in a hotel. On the same beach as the carnival. Okay, so I know where I am, but why in God's name is Sebastian here?
The legendary stylist stands in the center of the hotel suite, the eye of a fashion storm.
His model-minions flutter around him, resembling fashion-forward bats.
Racks upon racks of designer outfits are being delicately zipped into garment bags as if they’re newborn babies.
Accessories disappear into protective cases.
Sebastian holds his ever-faithful iPad in one hand and a bottle of sparkling Perrier in the other. His piercing gaze locks onto me; his expression shifts into theatrical disapproval.
“Look what the tequila fairy dragged in,” Sebastian announces. “I see you’ve added ‘decaying zombie’ to your list of fashion faux pas.”
Someone put me out of my misery.
“What—where—how did I—?” I say in a voice that sounds like I’ve been smoking cigarettes made of sand .
He calmly sips. “Monica found you last night sprawled tragically on the beach. She insisted we rescue you.”
“You were singing rock ballads to the waves,” Monica says while folding scarves. “Also crying. A lot. Your luggage is in the closet, along with your empty bottle.”
The word bottle sends my stomach into a warning spin. Tequila is now officially dead to me. Along with hope, dignity, and FaceTime.
“You are absolutely committed to testing the limits of my considerable talents, aren’t you?” Sebastian says, handing me two tiny spoons. “Here, chill your under-eyes, and you might just pass for human again.”
I’m about to tell him how far up his ass he can stick his beauty tips, when the mirror across the suite shows the truth.
Yikes. I look like roadkill that got hit, stumbled into the next lane, and then got hit again.
Puffy eyes. Streaked cheeks. And my topknot is giving I just cried in a Walgreens parking lot, so don’t ask energy.
I slap the spoons under my eyes and pray.
Sebastian sighs. “We cannot have the sister of the groom looking like she slept in a department store dumpster.” He pivots toward his fashion army.
“We have twenty minutes to clear out and descend upon Casa Cashmere. Today, we style the wealthiest individuals in the world. And most importantly, make sure this woman doesn’t vomit on the mink. Chop-chop, fashionistas!”
“Thanks for the rescue,” I say, “but I don’t need a ride. I’m not going.”
“Monica, assume control. Do not let those girls ball up my couture capes like gym socks.”
She nods and starts barking orders. “Valentino goes in garment bag twenty-three. Careful with those Louboutins! Where is the nipple tape?”
His expression is unreadable as he gestures toward a closed-off sitting area. Two plush chairs face oversized windows that offer front-row seats to the ocean.
“Sit,” he says as he opens a suitcase with velvet-lined compartments. Inside, there’s a portable espresso machine.
“You travel with that?”
He tosses me a look. “There are two things I never trust to amateurs. Orgasms… and coffee. Espresso?”
My hungover body practically weeps with gratitude. “Please.”
The grinder whirs to life, filling the space with rich, earthy promise. Sebastian moves like a high-end barista in a slow-motion commercial.
“Do you know why I ride you harder than an unpaid intern at Milan Fashion Week?”
“Because you’re the style antichrist and cruelty is your kink?”
He snorts. “Because I see you. It seems impossible looking at me now, but I have not always possessed this level of… fabulousness.”
“Sure, and next you’ll say you weren’t hatched from a Dior egg in Paris.”
“Regrettably, my origins were mundane. Blue-collar family, off-brand cereal, parents who only provided clearance-rack fashion.”
The espresso machine hisses and gurgles. Warm, nutty, roasty. My soul claws its way back into my body at the sound.
“Fashion became my path to salvation. I wanted to be a designer. So I poured every dime I had into chasing the neon trend. Glow-in-the-dark accessories. Belts, ties, suspenders, headbands—all made from actual glow sticks.”
“You made clothes out of glow sticks? That’s either genius or a fire hazard.”
“Sadly, the eighties proved to be an unforgiving era for establishing one’s reputation.
The critics were merciless. ‘Bellini’s Radioactive Disaster’—that was Harper’s Bazaar .
Cosmo called it ‘Chernobyl Meets Club Med.’ And the hardest to endure was from Vogue : ‘Glow Hard: One Man’s Nuclear Meltdown on the Runway. ’”
“Ouch.”
“Soul crushing but profoundly instructive. I learned that if you cannot join the sharks in their feeding frenzy, you must intimidate them into submission. I created an entirely new persona obsessed with styling, and Sebastian Bellini was reborn. And now? I am the critic. I became the fashion world’s gatekeeper. ”
He removes the espresso from the machine with ceremonial care, then places a tiny cup before me, dark and aromatic as sin. I take a sip.
“Holy shit. You should abandon styling and open a coffee empire.”
Sebastian cradles his cup. “I am aware of my many gifts. However, who has time for such pursuits when the fashion-challenged require constant saving?”
He pauses, studying me with his sharp little eyes. “I find myself in the rather unprecedented position of needing to say, I’m sorr—sarcastically aware that I may not have been fair to you.”
“Wait. Are you trying to say you’re sorry?”
“No. I’m Sebastian Bellini. I’m saying… I acknowledge your greatness while reminding you that I am the sun. ”
“Oh, thank God. For a second, I thought I’d entered an alternate dimension.”
“Do not make this more insufferable than it already is,” he huffs. “I’ve been especially hard on you because you strutted into my space with confidence and zero regard for my reputation. Your arrogance and style were… irritatingly difficult to comprehend.”
“So I annoyed you into respecting me?”
“Precisely. The sassier you got, the more curious I became. I thought, this one… this little barracuda might be bold enough to swim with the sharks. And then there was Mr. Sterling. The way his eyes were glued on you. It was like watching a duke fall in love with a flamethrower.”
“He doesn’t love me, Sebastian. I don’t belong in his world.”
“Ridiculous! Was not a single syllable of my incredibly moving personal story absorbed? I just told you— passionately , I might add—that belonging isn’t something they decide.
They don’t get to define your worth. You do.
Always. And if that handsome man is the one, then for the love of Prada, don’t let anyone stop you. ”
“I appreciate the pep talk, I really do. But Bryce made his choice, and it’s not me.”
He rises with signature grace, collecting our cups as he moves to the counter.
“Such a pity. You two were radiant together. And might I add, you’ve created quite the sensation—I have acquired several new clients thanks to your dramatic transformation! C’est la vie! Looks like I’ll be riding the wave of your new sister-in-law’s scandal instead.”
“What scandal? ”
“The Whitfield family’s spectacular implosion, naturally. What else could I mean?”
“What the hell are you saying? And don’t give me some cryptic fashion metaphor, or I’ll Photoshop Crocs onto every one of your clients and run a paid ad targeting the staff at Vogue .
His face twitches, then illuminates with delight.
“THERE she is! My spicy little honey badger.”
“Sebastian!”
“Rumor is, they’re bankrupt. I had an inkling, of course.
Their account has been delinquent for nearly two years, but one doesn’t discuss such vulgarities.
Mr. Whitfield borrowed beyond his means to keep up appearances.
The estates, the properties, even the jewelry—it’s all about to be seized.
And according to my sources, he’s looking at prison time. So naturally, he’s fled the country.”
The floor dissolves beneath my feet. Oh fuck.
Fiona’s card being declined. Her desperation. The rush to move up the wedding.
It all makes sense.
“My brother has no fucking clue! Fiona convinced him to marry her without a prenup. She’s gonna take everything he has.”
He gasps. “No. Not that magnificent, symmetrical specimen! He’s one of my most lucrative clients.”
“Glad your screwed-up priorities are consistent.”