CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
brYCE
“Sterling? The ring?”
Gavin’s voice crashes through my headspace. I’ve been numb the entire ceremony, too lost in thought. But his glare? Oh, I feel that. If it could, it would push me off the nearest cliff.
I fumble in my jacket pocket, fingers searching frantically. When my hand emerges, two rings sit in my palm—the diamond wedding band for Fiona, and the ruby ring. Petra’s ring.
The one I’ve been carrying around like a complete fool.
“Quite the jewelry collection,” he says with a snarl.
Oh, he definitely knows I bought it for his sister.
I jam the ring back into my pocket where ruby meets velvet, Amanda’s engagement box—the one that’s ticking like a time bomb.
“Apologies, Gavin.”
He snatches the band without comment. The line of his back is stiff and unforgiving .
We haven’t spoken since yesterday’s cigar lounge blow-up. When he looked me dead in the eye and said I was just like my father. A decade of brotherhood—gone in seconds.
My tie is too tight. My collar is choking me. The sweat crawling down my spine feels like acid.
Without thinking, my eyes drift to where I know Petra’s hiding.
To the side of the tent.
To the curtain.
To her combat boots.
Apparently, I’m the only one who’s noticed. Maybe it’s because I’m drawn to her in ways I’ll never be able to understand. Ways that defy logic, social conventions, and basic self-preservation.
“See you never, Moneybags.”
What she said in that closet echoes in my skull like a firing squad. Those were her last words. I will spend the rest of my miserable life replaying that harsh goodbye.
As the officiant drones on about love and commitment, my eyes are glued to those boots. They’re drumming out a steady beat, tapping some invisible cadence. My finger starts patting on my thigh, matching her frantic pulse. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!
What is she waiting for?
She said she’d stop this. Would she actually burn the place down? She wouldn’t. Would she?
I could stall. Gavin hates me, so what’s one more offense on the pile? What if I fake a choking fit? Pretend I was stung by a bee? Collapse from heatstroke? Hell, I’m pretty much on the verge of that already. Where are the goddamn police?
“Fiona, repeat after me,” the officiant says. “With this ring…”
I turn back to the boots. They’re gone .
Shit.
“EEEEAAAAAAAAYAAAAHHHHHH!”
A primal screech rips through the tent, followed by a blur of white lace, flying red lipstick, and murder in the shape of a woman.
WHAM!
She tackles Fiona with the force of a meteorite meeting a wedding cake.
CRASH!
Petra doesn’t just collide—she pounds Fiona into the grass, taking out half the altar flowers in the process. White petals fall like snow.
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd.
“You crazy bitch! Get off me!” Fiona screeches, arms flailing. She swings her bouquet like a weapon.
THWACK! SMACK!
Petra blocks with her elbow then straddles her, white dresses billowing around them like they’re wrestling in a cloud. “Stay away from my brother, you psycho!”
Gavin launches forward. “Petra! Stop this madness right—”
No time to think. My foot moves on instinct.
One quick sweep behind his knee, and— BAM!— he hits the ground beside me with a curse. I’m already on him, pinning his arms, locking him up. He’s strong, but I’m desperate.
“Bryce, have you lost your goddamn mind?” He struggles against my grip. “What the fuck is wrong with you? My sister’s having a complete breakdown!”
“You need to trust her.”
He jolts harder. I tighten the hold.
At the front, the women roll through scattered petals in a flurry of flying limbs and expensive fabric .
Hair-pulling. Screaming. A loud SLAP!
“You wore white to my wedding?!” Fiona screams.
“Damn right I did,” Petra snaps back. “And I’m not sorry I look hotter than you.”
I catalog the faces in the audience—three hundred of society’s elite watching their first live cage match. They’re mesmerized and mortified in equal measure.
Fiona breaks free and rakes her French manicure down Petra’s cheek like a savage house cat.
“Keep your claws to yourself, you fake-ass princess!” Petra jerks back, avoiding the worst of the scratching assault.
“Get your poor-person filth off me!” Fiona screeches.
“YAP! YAP! YAP!” Miss Muffy barks frantically.
“Oh my stars, Miss Von Cashmere!” Nigel swoops in, cradling the dog and putting his hand over her eyes. “Don’t look, precious. This is most unseemly,” he says, planting himself ringside.
Fiona struggles upright. “Pathetic little nobody! You’re nothing but gutter scum!”
Petra stomps her combat boot down on the train of Fiona’s gown— RIPPP! “Time to end this, you gold-digging parasite!”
She reaches into her jacket with theatrical flair, producing the lipstick-sized taser I’d given her. Uh-oh.
“You brought a taser to my wedding?!” Fiona gasps.
CRACK!
Fiona’s stiletto flies through the air and hits its target. Petra’s wrist flinches as the device goes flying.
The weapon spins and cartwheels. It bounces once off a champagne flute, ricochets off the baby grand piano, and lands between Hana’s heels .
She picks the object up, giggling nervously. “Oh wow, this is… a taser? It looks just like my emergency lip gloss.”
“Fiona, you glitter-brained demon!” Petra growls, nursing her wrist. “That was a gift.”
“I will END you!” Fiona hurls herself forward with a scream that’s part banshee, part Broadway soprano.
THUD! They collide in a flurry of slapping hands and kicking feet, falling to the ground.
BAM! Petra blocks her assault with street-smart instincts, but then Fiona, thrashing and enraged, gets the upper hand and climbs on top of Petra.
SLAM! She smashes Petra’s head on the ground. “You have no idea what it takes to make a wedding like this a reality. You know nothing! You are nothing. I had to plan, steal, beg, and blackmail to get here .”
“Boo-fucking-hoo!”
Fiona’s voice spikes with hysteria. “I’ve worked too hard and too long to let some poor, white-trash loser ruin it! I didn’t POISON A KING to be stopped by you!”
The tent falls silent.
Petra stops mid-wrestle. “Did you just confess to poisoning the King of Lick-my-dick-tenstein?”
Fiona’s face drains as her brain catches up with her mouth. “I… no… that’s not… Echo did it!”
WEEEE-OOOO-WEEEE-OOOO!
Sirens in the distance grow louder by the second.
Echo’s head pops up from the audience. His face is pale.
He runs.
Right. Past. Me .
I reach out, hook my hand into his absurd peacock-silk scarf—and yank. The fabric goes taut like a leash, and Echo slingshots backward, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring “ YELP!”
I release Gavin, lunging up and onto the winded artist.
“The cosmos demands my dramatic exit,” Echo says.
I wrap him in a chokehold, grab his scarf, and stuff it into his mouth. “Marvin, the universe just told me to tell you to shut the hell up.”
SCREECH!
Tires skid outside the tent.
“?POLICíA! ?TENEMOS UNA ORDEN DE ARRESTO!” a voice blasts from the bullhorn across the grounds. “Everyone freeze! We have arrest warrants!”
“About damn time,” I mutter, maintaining my stranglehold.
Fiona moves before anyone can react—a wild rush of satin and spite.
She barrels into Nigel, ripping Miss Muffy from his arms with both hands. The Maltese shrieks, paws scrabbling midair, as Fiona clutches her like a prize. Nigel stumbles back, eyes wide, hands still frozen in the shape of the dog. Gasps ripple through the crowd, but Fiona doesn’t flinch.
“Everyone BACK OFF! This furry gold mine is worth more than all your portfolios combined!”
“Unhand Miss Von Cashmere, you deranged debutante!” Nigel growls.
“Screw yourself, Featherwick!” Fiona backs toward the altar, clutching the terrified dog. “I’m done kissing ass to a glorified rodent! You want your fuzzy ATM back? Time to negotiate! ”
Petra stalks forward with the focus of a shark smelling blood. “Give me the dog. Or I swear to God, Fiona, you’ll leave here with bite marks—and they won’t be from her.”
Fiona’s eyes dart. Her grip tightens.
“Fi, baby,” Gavin says, voice raw, “whatever’s happening… we can fix it. Just talk to me. I love you.”
She laughs. “Love? Don’t kid yourself. We both know you were only interested in a family upgrade.”
Gavin winces—and the whole room feels it.
Echo tries to break free, squirming like a demented octopus. I lock him down.
“Your mom scrubbed my family’s toilets! Your sister’s a bartender, for God’s sake! You really thought a few billion dollars could make you one of us?” She snorts. “You’re a knockoff in Tom Ford, Gav-Gav.”
I glance at Petra, but she’s locked on Hana. With a single, almost imperceptible dip of her chin, Petra signals something. Hana returns the gesture.
Whatever they cooked up, it’s happening.
“The Whitfields built this country! We owned land when your ancestors were picking potatoes! I’m American royalty! When I rebuild my family’s fortune, I’ll buy this mansion, and every single person here will bow down, lick my shoes, and—”
“Oh my GOD, Fiona, shut UP!” The words explode from Hana’s mouth.
Fiona whips around, blonde curls bouncing, nostrils flaring. “Hana! How dare you—”
That’s when Petra moves.
Time slows. She dives for the dog, pulling Miss Muffy out of Fiona’s surprised grip, shielding the animal with her own body. Petra skids across the floor, dog safely cocooned before they both roll to a stop at the altar steps. And then—
BZZZZZZT!
The taser makes contact. Fiona convulses midscream before collapsing backward into what’s left of the floral display—limbs twitching, lips mumbling nonsense.
“This is for all the pets you stole from,” Hana yells, taser in hand. “And also… you’re just a bitch.”
Jesus Christ. Sweet, innocent Hana just electrocuted the bride.
Stunned silence. Until…
The black-uniformed authorities flood in with tactical efficiency. Echo and Fiona are hauled upright, silver handcuffs click into place.
“This arrest is an illusion!” Echo wails as they take him away. “The handcuffs are merely props in my latest art piece!”