Chapter 10 #2
I hit play and we listen together.
The difference is immediate.
When I was behind the hedge, I heard everything. The words. The tone. The way Blake slithered around her authority.
Now?
The ocean crashes louder than I remember. Wind rushes through the mic. Scarlett’s voice cuts in and out. Blake’s is clearer—but parts blur, smear, dissolve into background noise.
Barbie’s jaw tightens as she listens.
When it ends, she pulls the earbud out slowly.
“Damn it,” she mutters. “That wind.”
“I know,” I say, deflated. “It sounded clearer in person.”
“It always does,” she replies. “Recordings are cruel like that.” She thinks for a beat, then looks at me. “Don’t get me wrong. This is bad… in the good way. You can hear the entitlement. The sleaze. The way he talks to her.”
“But,” I say.
“But,” she confirms, “it’s not enough.”
My stomach drops. “Not enough to convince Natalie?”
“Not enough to be undeniable,” Barbie says. “If we play this for her right now, she’ll want to hear what she wants to hear. Blake will spin. Minimize. Joke his way out. He always does.”
She taps her manicured nail against her phone. “If we’re going to stop this wedding before vows are exchanged, it must be ironclad. No interpretation. No benefit of the doubt.”
“We need them on video,” she says quietly. “Face. Voice. Context. Something that makes it impossible to explain away.”
I nod. “Understood. I’ll stay close.”
The path back to the casita area is quieter, lit by soft lanterns strung between palm trees. The music from the cocktail hour fades, replaced by the rhythmic sigh of the ocean and the chirp of unseen insects. It’s beautiful. Peaceful.
Just noisy enough to ruin everything.
Darn the wind. Turns out paradise has terrible acoustics.
I just texted West to meet me at the casita, excitement still humming under my skin even as disappointment settles in. Two heads are better than one—and I’m hoping we can come up with a better plan. One that turns what I caught into something ironclad.
Suddenly I hear the stumble behind me before I see him. The heavy, uneven tread on the crushed shell path.
“Jane.”
Blake’s voice is thick, slurred. I freeze, then slowly turn.
I must have been distracted because he’s standing a lot closer than I expected.
He sways slightly, blocking the path. His tie is loose, his shirt rumpled, his eyes bloodshot and fixed on me with unnerving intensity. The smell of expensive bourbon rolls off him in waves.
“Blake.” I keep my voice neutral. “Heading back to the party?”
He ignores the question. Takes a step closer. Too close. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, mixed with something sour. “Been watching you,” he slurs. “Watching you play your little game.”
My pulse kicks up, a frantic drum solo against my ribs. “Game?”
“With Prescott.” He gestures vaguely, almost losing his balance. “Think you’re clever, don’t you? Little townie trash thinks she’s landed the big fish.”
"Excuse me?"
A nasty smile twists his lips.
"Don't act offended. We all know how this works. Guys like West, girls like you—it's transactional." He reaches out, fingers brushing my arm. "So what's your rate? Maybe I could—"
"Stay where you are."
"Relax." His grip tightens on my wrist. "I'm just saying, if you're looking for an upgrade—"
"Let go."
Blake leans in, his breath hot on my face.
"—West's always been soft. Even with Caroline, he couldn't… satisfy—"
Rage, white-hot and blinding, surges through me. Not for myself. For West. For the quiet pain I’d glimpsed when he mentioned Caroline, for the three years of self-imposed exile, for the trust he’d tentatively placed in me.
“Back off, Blake.”
He laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “Or what? You’ll call your knight in shining… whatever the hell he is?”
He grabs my other wrist suddenly, his grip surprisingly strong, crushing. “Think he actually cares? He’s just using you, sweetheart.”
I try to pull away, but his fingers dig in. Panic flares, bright and hot. “Let go of me!”
“Make me,” he sneers, his face inches from mine. The bourbon fumes are overwhelming. “What’s the matter? Not so tough without your babysitter?”
“Let. Her. Go.”
The voice is low. Flat.
Blake actually flinches. He releases my wrists so fast I stumble back a step, skin burning where his fingers dug in.
But then his spine straightens. Ego scrambling to reassert itself.
“Prescott!” Blake sneers, puffing out his chest. “Just having a chat with your… companion.” His gaze slides to me, leering.
West stands a few feet away, lantern light carving him into shadow and muscle. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. Every line of him hums with restraint.
“Walk away, Blake.” Not a suggestion. An order. Final. “Now.”
Blake’s face twists. Humiliation curdles into rage. Scarlett dismissed him. And now West is talking to him like a misbehaving child.
In front of me.
He steps closer, jabbing a finger into West’s chest. “Or what, Pres? You gonna hit me?”
Blake has a death wish.
“No, Blake, don’t,” I say quickly. “Genuinely. This is a bad idea.”
“Stay out of this, bitch!”
West’s jaw tightens. His eyes never leave Blake’s hand.
“Last chance,” he says calmly. “Walk. Away.”
“He’s a professional athlete,” I add, because apparently I’ve chosen chaos.
“You’re drunk. The math doesn’t work.”
Blake scoffs and shoves West—hard.
West doesn’t budge. Not an inch. He absorbs it like a brick wall, only a slight tightening around his eyes giving anything away.
West exhales slowly. “You done?”
Blake shoves him again, harder—and nearly falls over from his own effort.
“Sober up,” I snap. “You understand West gets slammed into boards by men on skates going twenty miles an hour, right?”
West doesn’t look at me, but I hear the faintest edge of humor creep into his voice. “She’s not wrong.”
Blake growls and swings.
West leans back casually. The punch misses by a mile.
“…That was slow,” I blurt.
West finally glances at me. “Painfully.”
Blake stumbles, spins with the momentum, and winds up again.
“Blake, buddy,” I call out, unable to stop myself, “you’re gonna throw out your shoulder—”
“I said shut up!” Blake roars, swinging wild. Slurring his words, swaying on his feet, trying to puff his chest up again.
“Jane. Step back.” West warns me.
"—you think he’s so special with big muscles and big body—his little thing doesn’t work—where it counts—so take that—"
"Can you just knock him out?" I ask West, genuinely curious. "Like, one punch? End this?"
West's jaw tightens. His hand flexes at his side.
For a second, I think he's actually considering it.
"Tempting," he mutters.
"I'm standing right here—" Blake slurs.
"We know," I say. "That's the problem. You won't leave."
Blake takes another unsteady step forward. "You don't get to talk to me like that. Ha! If he hits me, Daddy’s lawyers will—”
"Oh my, he's still talking," I say.
"West. Seriously. Just—" I make a knocking motion with my fist. "Put him out of his misery."
West's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "You're a bad influence."
"I'm a practical influence. There’s a good chance he might not remember any of this tomorrow."
But West remains patient. Like he’s watching a toddler exhaust themselves in a tantrum.
He sighs. “Okay,” he mutters. “That’s enough.”
Then Blake charges.
Actually charges, head down, arms out.
"Oh no—" I step forward without thinking, trying to—intercept? Push Blake? I don't know—my fixer instincts just scream de-escalate, intervene, stop this!
I lunge forward, aiming to get between them, to push Blake back, to do something.
My timing is spectacularly bad.
West chooses that exact moment to shift his weight, preparing to move. My elbow, thrown out for balance in my frantic lunge, connects with the side of his face. Hard. Right on the bridge of his nose.
“Damn!” West staggers back, his hand flying to his nose. Blood pours through his fingers, drips off his chin onto his shirt.
"Oh West! Oh gosh! I’m so sorry—"
“Not your fault,” he says through his hand, voice tight. “Just stay back.”
Blake sees the blood and grins, hands raised in victory. "Got you! Bleeding like a—"
"Blake, that wasn't YOU, that was ME—"
"Still counts!" Blake's laughing, drunk and triumphant.
West's expression doesn't change. He wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Then I hear Blake coming, this time at me.
And West moves.
Fast. Controlled. Efficient.
One punch. Solar plexus. Perfectly placed.
Blake folds like a lawn chair, all the air leaving his lungs in one sick wheeze.
"Oh," I breathe. "Oh wow. That's what a real punch looks like."
West moves in, gets Blake's arm behind him, leverages his weight. Blake goes down, face pressed to the path, wheezing.
"That," he says quietly, blood dripping from his chin, "was a mistake, my friend."
"Not the face!" Blake chokes out, while holding his hands up, blocking the punches he thinks are coming. "Wedding photos—please—not the face—"
"Then stop talking," West says, voice flat.
He releases Blake.
Blake stays down, panting, trying to save face even while gasping for air. "Whatever—crazy bitch isn't worth—"
West takes one step forward.
Blake scrambles backward on his hands, eyes wide. "I'm done! I'm done!"
He staggers to his feet, stumbles away into the darkness, muttering.
West turns to me, blood still streaming from his nose.
"You okay?" His first words.
Not about Blake. Not about his face. About me.
And that's when I realize.
I’m catching feelings.
Real, dangerous, countdown-defying feelings.
Shit.
"I'm fine," I manage, my voice shakier than I'd like.
"You're the one bleeding," I say stupidly.
"I've had worse."
"I elbowed you in the face."
"You were trying to help."
"I made it worse."
West's mouth twitches. "A little."
And despite everything—the adrenaline, the fear, the chaos—I start laughing.
It's the kind of laughter that borders on hysteria, the kind that bubbles up when your brain can't process what just happened.