CHAPTER TWENTY #2
My mind’s doing cartwheels. I need to call my brother, but my phone is fish food, and he’s still furious with me. Plus, this isn’t a convo you have through a screen.
“I need to sneak into that wedding and get five minutes alone with him.” I swallow hard. “Oh God. I can’t believe I’m saying this.”
I take a deep breath, like I’m about to jump off a cliff .
“Sebastian… will you style me?”
He responds by dramatically throwing the hotel suite doors wide.
“Code White Swan! Our lady of wrath wants revenge! Give me outfits that scream ‘lethal injection.’”
Models scurry like runway rats.
“I require Chanel—the archival collection, not the influencer glam bin! GUCCI, but tastefully unhinged! Valentino with leg slits! Dior with vengeance in the hem! No Oscar de la Renta. Florals are for funerals and Fiona’s lackluster soul.”
Sebastian snaps his fingers. “Jewelry. I want weaponized sparkle. Give me earrings that say back off, bitch and a necklace that whispers I brought receipts. ”
He turns to me with manic glee. “You, my dear, are wearing white.”
“Isn’t that, like, the cardinal sin of weddings?”
“Exactly. You want vengeance? Step one: upstage the bride.”
“Step two?” I say as a flock of models circle me, ready to remake me from head to heel.
Sebastian’s grin widens.
“Save the groom. And step three: Make Mr. Sterling rue the day he didn’t choose you.”
***
Turns out, infiltrating a billionaire wedding is super easy when you’re disguised as one of Sebastian’s lovely assistants.
I adjust my giant black sunglasses and stomp across Casa Cashmere’s manicured lawn, ready to fuck shit up.
My white dress is dreamy—lace bodice, flowy skirt, covered by my leather jacket and combat boots.
Because yes I feel pretty, but I also like feeling powerful.
My tattoos are on full display, and my red lipstick is locked and loaded.
Sebastian Bellini is a fashion god. I look fucking hot.
I slip past the security guard and make it to the back of the ceremony tent, mentally rehearsing my dramatic entrance speech, when—
WHAM.
Something hard slams into my back, and suddenly I’m being bear-hugged from behind. My arms are pinned to my sides, and whoever’s got me is hauling ass toward what appears to be a service entrance.
“PUT ME DOWN, YOU LUNATIC!”
“Shhh!”
Taser! I need my taser.
I frantically paw at my leather jacket, trying to reach the pocket that’s hiding my lipstick-sized weapon. This is precisely the scenario Bryce envisioned when he gave them to me.
A hand covers my mouth before I can yell for help.
I thrash wildly, sending my sunglasses flying. I’m shoved into a closet, the door slamming shut and casting me into darkness. The second the grip lets up, I pull out my taser, whirling around with my finger on the trigger.
“Hey, asshole! I’m about to tase the fuck out of you. Turn the lights on nice and slow so I can see which one of Fiona’s goons you are.”
The lights flip on. It’s Bryce Sterling.
Of. Freaking. Course .
He stands in a black tuxedo, his bow tie perfectly straight, his golden hair styled in soft, touchable layers.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” My arm drops. But not all the way. “You have two seconds to explain, or I will light up your balls.”
He glances at the taser, then back at me with a smirk. I want to slap it off his face.
“I had to subdue you to get you alone. Which meant immobilizing your arms so I could—”
“No, explain why we’re here, not how you got me here, you lying, cheating jackass.”
“Oh. Nigel caught sight the moment you arrived and sent me to retrieve you.”
“Great. So much for my career in espionage.”
“He’s coming to meet us,” Bryce continues, not taking his eyes off me. “You look… Christ, you’re stunning.”
My traitorous heart tries to soar, but I squash it like a bug.
Nope. Not falling for that shit anymore.
I point the taser at his chest. “Save the smooth talk for your next sneaky fuck. I’m not here to relive mistakes. My brother is about to marry a con artist, and somebody needs to stop him.”
Bryce raises his hands slowly. “Agreed and understood. I’m also here for him.”
“Then why are we playing hide-and-seek in the linen closet? Shouldn’t we be dragging Gavin away from the altar?”
“There’s a lot that’s happened since you left—”
The closet door swings open, and Nigel appears holding Miss Muffy like she’s a furry Fabergé egg, dressed in a suspiciously familiar peach dress .
“Miss Brinkman,” Nigel says briskly. “What a pleasure to have you with us again. I’m afraid we haven’t time for pleasantries.”
I stare at the ruffly peach gown, then at the dog. “Is that… my bridesmaid’s dress?”
Nigel nods, adjusting the dog’s glittering tiara. “Miss Whitfield made a last-minute substitution.”
The absurdity lands hard and fast. “Let me get this straight. I got replaced by a dog.”
“Indeed.” Nigel turns to Bryce. “How much have you told her?”
“None of it,” Bryce admits. “I was waiting for you.”
“Well, how gentlemanly of you both,” I snap. “Allow me to drop the first bomb: Fiona’s family is broke as hell. Her dad’s accounts are frozen, he’s running from the feds, and this whole wedding is an elaborate heist designed to drain my brother’s bank account.”
I blink. They look at me like I’m not done yet.
“Hello? No gasps? No ‘oh Petra, you brilliant sexy genius, we never should’ve doubted you’?”
Nigel nods. “Yes. The Whitfield estate is bankrupt. This wedding is a calculated play to secure your brother’s assets before the truth goes public.”
Bryce steps forward. “You were right about Echo and Fiona working together. But it’s worse than you thought.”
“When Mr. Sterling showed me Echo’s sketchpad,” Nigel begins, “I instantly recognized the gentleman depicted in those rather obsessive portraits. That man is His Royal Highness, the King of Liechtenstein.”
“The King of where-the-fuck? Is that a real place, or did you make that up? ”
“Very real. Very small. Very rich,” Bryce interjects. “The kind of country that has more money than people.”
“What I failed to realize,” Nigel continues, “was that Echo had been serving as the artist-in-residence at the royal palace mere days before arriving here.”
“Echo poisoned him, Pip. Nearly killed the man. Those bizarre sandwich diagrams you discovered? That was his recipe book for royal assassination.”
I blink. “I’m sorry—did you just say he sandwich-poisoned a literal king?”
“To steal the reservation,” Nigel explains. “Interpol has been hunting for Echo, but they had no idea of his whereabouts until I contacted them with our suspicions.”
BARK! BARK!
Miss Muffy’s series of demanding barks bounce off the closet walls like furry little sirens.
“Oh, darling,” Nigel coos. “What is it, my sweet girl? Are you feeling anxious?”
The dog’s growing obsession toward my jacket pocket makes it clear. “Princess Fluffington wants a snack.”
I pull out the napkin-wrapped cookies I snagged from Sebastian’s suite, and both men immediately look at me like I’m holding a loaded weapon.
“Oh right,” I laugh, the irony no longer lost on me. “We established that fancy food equals potential death.” I break off a piece and pop it in my mouth. “There. Official taste test complete. Only peanut butter, no royal assassination attempts.”
“Given Miss Von Cashmere’s apparent determination,” Nigel says, “I suppose a small portion would be acceptable. ”
I offer Muffy a nibble, and she scarfs it down, her little pink tongue working overtime to get every crumb.
“So,” I say, “Echo poisoned the king to open up a reservation slot for Fiona? But why?”
“Because she needed to marry your brother before two things happened,” Bryce explains. “Before news of her family’s bankruptcy went public, and before Heartvest’s IPO made your brother a billionaire. Hence her move to convince him of no prenup.”
“You assholes and your money really are the root of all evil,” I mutter. “Like seriously—get a fucking job.”
“The authorities were only able to establish Miss Whitfield’s money-laundering activities because she deviated from her usual pattern.
Typically, she would extract modest amounts over extended periods from her nonprofits.
However, the financial demands of this wedding required her to drain the charity accounts entirely. ”
“So greed made her sloppy.”
“Precisely,” Nigel confirms. “There are currently outstanding warrants for both Miss Fiona Whitfield and Mr. Marvin Grossman.”
“Who the hell is Marvin Grossman?”
“That’s Echo’s real name,” Bryce explains. “Marvin Grossman, age thirty-two, from Fresno, California. Turns out our mysterious European artist is actually a failed community college dropout with a Roblox gaming channel.”
“Please tell me you’ve taken my brother aside and explained that his bride-to-be is basically a sexy Ponzi scheme.”
“No,” Bryce says simply.
“And we have no intention of doing so,” Nigel adds.
“Are you out of your goddamn minds?” I shriek, making Miss Muffy’s ears perk up in alarm. “My brother is about to legally handcuff himself to a federal fugitive! We have to warn him!”
BARK! BARK! BARK!
“Miss Brinkman,” Nigel says, “perhaps another small treat for Miss Von Cashmere? She seems to find your energy rather… stimulating.”
I break off another cookie chunk and feed it to her. “I guess maybe we are a little alike, Miss Muffy. We both love being loud and demanding snacks when we’re stressed.”
“I’ve consulted with the authorities,” Nigel continues, “and they’ve requested that we proceed with the wedding ceremony as scheduled. They’re concerned that we may spook Miss Whitfield or Mr. Grossman and cause them to flee.”
“It’s unclear how much money those two have stashed away,” Bryce adds. “If they run, they could disappear permanently. We can’t risk making them suspicious.”
My brain chugs away, trying to process what I’ve just learned.
“You want justice, Petra?” Bryce’s blue eyes lock on to mine. “This is how you get it.”
“Can’t we at least tell Gavin?” I ask.