2. Back To Black #3
“Oh, that’s my sister,” I hear Philippa say behind me.
Shit.
“Elena,” she adds. “This is Cooper. We graduated from Columbia together.”
Philippa grins from ear to ear, and I can see the twinkle in her eyes. She doesn’t have to say what she’s thinking—her face is practically a billboard for it: Hot boy. Here you go. Have some fun.
He reaches out a hand. “Cooper. You’re Elena Montgomery, right?”
“Yes. Do we know each other?” I ask, placing my hand in his. He clasps his other hand over mine, effectively trapping it in place.
It’s nice, I guess.
“I’m sorry, that’s presumptuous of me,” he says quickly. “I saw you on Rise and Shine America. I gotta say, you’re pretty awesome—can I get an autograph?”
“Thank you—I’ll think about it,” I tease, a blush creeping up my cheeks. When I take my hand back, there’s a flicker of resistance before he finally lets go.
“Playing hard to get. That’s cool. I’ll earn it. So—do you ladies want to join us? We’ve got a table just over there.” He points, his megawatt grin on full display.
“Sounds great. Lead the way,” Philippa says.
What?
Ugh.
“Come on, play nice,” Riley says, dragging me behind her. “Maybe you can have some fun—and play with Cooper.” She nudges me.
Fun.
The idea makes me want to throw myself down a flight of stairs. The last thing I need right now is another complication in my life.
He leads us to a U-shaped booth with a low table in the center—dimly lit, buzzing with the energy of the four other guys already seated there. Bottles glint like jewels, and someone’s ordered another round. Cooper introduces us to the others—all polite, well-mannered enough.
I take a sip, the sweet burn of cranberry and vodka loosens the knot in my chest.
Cooper slides in beside Philippa, his laugh smooth, practiced.
He’s charming in that polished, Upper East Side way—expensive suit, perfect hair, the kind of man who’s been told yes his whole life.
I try not to look at him, but he’s dialed it up a notch—his eyes, his grin, the way he keeps angling himself toward me.
The DJ shifts gears—”SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake floods the room, bass vibrating through the floor. Riley yanks my hand, grinning like a maniac.
“I love this song—let’s dance!”
I laugh—half protest, half surrender—and let her drag me onto the floor. The music pulses through my heels. Neon lights wash over us in pinks and purples as bodies press and move. Riley’s carefree—hair swinging, shouting lyrics at the top of her lungs.
This is what your twenties are supposed to be—throwing your head back and having a good time. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Cooper reappears, drink in hand, flashing that confident grin. He leans in—too close.
“You’re so hot.” He moves in rhythm beside me. His cologne hits—sharp, clean, too familiar. I don’t want to unpack why.
I lean into it. It’s nothing. Just a dance.
For a heartbeat, I let go—the headlines, the heartbreak, the ache still stitched with Alex’s name.
Grinding against him, feeling his hands on me. It’s fine.
“You’ve got moves,” he says, his voice nearly swallowed by the music.
You were dancing. You were magnetic. The memory of Alex’s words creep into my mind.
I am way too sober for this.
“Excuse me for a moment.” I shrug him off, beeline for the bar, and order four shots of vodka. I throw them back, gritting my teeth as the burn tears its way down my chest.
I head back to the group a little wobblier on my feet and practically collapse into Riley’s lap.
“Where’d you go, babe?”
“Just needed a sec.”
“You okay?”
I nod. Far from it.
Drink after drink arrives, and the edges of the night blur. The lights smear like paint; laughter grows louder, freer. Riley whoops, spinning me in a clumsy twirl that sends my hair flying.
Philippa throws her arms around me. “Cooper hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”
“Good for him.”
She giggles. “He’s handsome, successful, from a respectable family—”
“Pip, it’s barely been a week since…” I stop, unable to say it aloud.
“Relax, I’m not saying marry him,” she teases, waggling her brows. “Enjoy yourself.”
My sister must’ve been abducted. Who is she?
“Are you suggesting rebound sex with the Wolf of Wall Street?”
She shrugs playfully. “Back me up here, Riley.”
“Babe, you know I’m all for a good pussy pounding.”
They both cackle. I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling. I’m glad they’re having fun—even if it’s at my expense.
“I need another drink,” I say, raising my hand as I slip away—another four shots of vodka.
By the time I stumble back, I catch Philippa mid-conversation with Cooper and his suited entourage.
“Actually, I’ve been trying to discuss expansion opportunities for Goodman Enterprises with Broderick,” Cooper says, swirling his drink. “The man and his morals—he can’t be moved. Could’ve doubled his billions by now, but he refuses to entertain the proposal.”
At the sound of his name, my ears prick.
He knows Broderick.
Broderick and his sparkly green eyes.
The thought of him eases something in me—better than booze ever could.
Cooper nudges his friend, who catches the cue and slides out from beside him, motioning for me to sit. Then, in perfect wingman fashion, he throws an arm around Riley.
“Can I trouble you for a dance?”
“Lead the way, stud.” She grins, letting him guide her back toward the dance floor.
“I’m coming too,” Philippa chimes in, shooting me a look before following them. She’s about as subtle as a flying brick.
Now it’s just me and Cooper.
Great.
I toss up taking her spot—before I can, he says, “Have a seat, Elena. I don’t bite.” He pats the space beside him.
I sigh. Not wanting to be rude—he’s been shouting us drinks all night—I reluctantly sit down.
“Are you having fun, Elena?” he asks, voice dipped in flirtation. It might’ve worked under different circumstances, but he has no idea he’s dealing with a woman nursing a bruised ego and a wounded heart.
“You know Brody?” I ask, steering the conversation elsewhere. Saying his name feels safe—grounding.
Cooper chuckles. “You could say we’re acquainted. In business. You know him?”
“Yeah, we’re friends. I think.”
That kiss between us flashes through my mind, and I’m not sure anymore—all theose charged moments, the tangled web between him and Alex.
“You think?” He smiles, amused, snapping me back to reality.
“Well, he’s the best man at Philippa’s wedding.”
“I see.” He takes a sip, eyes raking over me. He shifts closer until our arms brush.
My pulse skips—for all the wrong reasons.
Then his finger trails lightly up my arm. The touch is deliberate.
“You never answered my question,” he murmurs.
“What question?”
“Are you having a good time tonight?”
I nod, though my breath shortens.
He leans in, his breath grazing my ear. “Anything I can do to make it even better?”
“Are you normally this forward with women?” I ask, keeping my tone light, my body rigid.
“When they look like you? How can I resist?” The heat curls around my neck—but it doesn’t feel seductive. It feels predatory.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“So what does it take to make you scream those high notes?” he says, brushing my hair off my shoulder. I shudder.
I want to scream, Don’t fucking touch me. But the bile rises—silencing me.
“Look, you’re not exactly my first celebrity. Let’s just sign the NDA and take this party elsewhere.”
“Pardon?”
“The NDA. I can be discreet. I’ll happily sign my life away for a night between your thighs. You’re a fucking peach—bet you taste just as sweet.” He winks, then wraps his hand around my arm, his head dropping toward my neck.
I shove him off me.
Of course. Everything’s a transaction with men like him—the gratification of bagging a pop-star, dangling an NDA like it’s all for my benefit.
“Tempting,” I say, springing to my feet. “But I’d rather dry-hump a cactus. Thanks for being discreet, though.”
The thought of him touching me makes my skin crawl. His expression falters—offended—but I don’t care. I’m not the keeper of his feelings.
The buzz that carried me here drains away, leaving nothing but exhaustion—and that hollow ache.
Is this my pool of men now? After being swept off my feet by Alex, I get some trust fund turd looking to cross another celebrity off his bingo card.
I head to the bar and order six shots of vodka. Throwing them back one after the other.
I weave back toward the dance floor, finding Riley and Philippa. I dance wedged between them, my human shields, as thoughts of the only man who’s ever truly touched me play in my mind—his lips, his eyes, his touch, his sweet promises.
Oh God. The liquid in my stomach starts to churn.
“I think I’m going to be sick!” I yell into Riley’s ear.
Philippa must hear, because her eyes widen and she wraps her arms around me, steering me toward the bathrooms.
“Elena, whatever you do—keep it together. People are watching,” she hisses.
“Fuck—the line’s too long. Let’s go, let’s get her home,” Riley says.
My legs feel like jelly, and the club blurs into a haze. They half-drag me through a dark hallway—toward the back entrance, I think.
As soon as the door opens, the crisp autumn air cools the sweat on my brow—but it’s mixed with cigarette smoke, garbage, and urine.
I hunch over, heaving up the contents of tonight’s bad decisions all over my stunning new shoes.
“Nooo,” I sob. “Rio’s gift—nooooo.”
They haul me into the back of a cab as ragged breaths tear out of me.
“I don’t want to fuck Cooper,” I slur. “I want my Alex.”
Tears burn hot as they spill. I can barely make out what Riley and Philippa are saying.
Why doesn’t he want me? The question loops like a broken record.
My eyes close, the cab’s motion making me dizzy.
“I don’t care that the baby’s his, you know,” I mumble.
“The baby is his? That makes so much more sense now,” Riley says.
“What? Are you seriously telling me you were willing to play—what? Stepmother to Alex’s child?” Philippa snaps. “Elena, you can barely take care of yourself, let alone a baby.”
“I don’t know…I mean, it’s not the baby’s fault. It would be half Alex. Our Swedish mountain baby.”