Chapter 12
The Detonator
Jane
West drives me to the restaurant where I’m meeting Merritt, Barbie, Sloane, and Katelyn.
His arrival in a resort golf cart, shirt still slightly damp, hair still gloriously messy from our swim and subsequent towel-drying, causes a minor ripple.
"You're causing a scene," I murmur.
"Good." He slides his hand to my lower back. Possessive. Deliberate. "Let them look."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're beautiful."
Before I can respond to that—to the casual way he says it, like it's fact instead of opinion—he tips my chin up and kisses me.
Not a peck. A statement.
When he pulls back, I'm pretty sure I've forgotten how words work.
"See you tonight," he says, grinning at whatever my face is doing.
"Mm-hmm."
He’s still laughing as he walks away, golf cart keys spinning on one finger, and catch myself memorizing the exact slope of his shoulders.
This is what girlfriends do. Real ones.
You’re just borrowing the role, Jane.
It’s fake. He’s selling it. You’re selling it. Fifty thousand dollars.
I lock the feeling down before it can bloom into something dangerous. Feelings are a liability. I don’t have room for them right now.
As soon as he disappears down the path, I straighten my spine, smooth my hair, and switch my phone to work mode—notifications off, recorder app ready. The woman who just melted into that kiss gets locked in a box labeled Deal With Later.
Professional Jane has a job to do
I turn toward the restaurant, cheeks still warm, and find the ladies already settled at a table.
“Okay, spill,” Sloane demands as soon as I sit down. “What is it really like? Dating a human Adonis who looks at you like you personally hung the moon?”
“You look… thoroughly refreshed.” Merritt sighs dreamily.
Barbie’s gaze flicks to my wrist, where the faint marks are barely visible. "Busy night?"
The other bridesmaids drift closer, eyes alight with curiosity and poorly concealed amusement.
“Is he into bondage?” Sloane asks, nodding toward my wrist. “Because those marks—”
“BLAKE,” I yelp, a little too loud. A passing waiter jumps.
Then I whisper-hiss, “Blake grabbed me. Not—West didn’t—there was no tying—no ropes—absolutely no knots of any kind.”
Sloane grins, utterly unrepentant. “But you’ve thought about it.”
I groan. “Can we please,” I say, pressing my palms to the table, “focus on the unfaithful groom who accosted me instead of my theoretical interest in maritime-themed restraint?”
The table sobers instantly.
"Okay, tell us what happened with Blake?" Katelyn's eyes go wide.
I give them the abbreviated version: Blake cornering me on the beach, the grab, West's intervention, the punch.
I leave out the part where my heart nearly exploded watching West defend me, because that feels too raw, too real.
I mention Blake's flower basket apology this morning—the narcissistic note, West yeeting the whole thing into the jungle.
By the time I finish, Sloane is leaning forward, Merritt looks horrified, and Katelyn's knuckles are white around her mimosa glass.
"That absolute piece of—" Sloane starts.
"Two days before his wedding," Katelyn breathes. "He tried to—"
Merritt sets down her mimosa with a deep frown.
"Well, that certainly complicates things. Blake's not going to risk another confrontation with West around."
Barbie angles toward me, all curiosity. So. What’s the plan now? How are you getting close enough to catch him?”
Four pairs of eyes turn to look at me.
The ladies came to the same conclusion as West and me.
Plan A—I honeypot Blake directly—is dead after West went full protective mode and basically radiated a "touch her and you die" warning at Blake last night.
Plan B—I make Scarlett jealous enough to publicly stake her claim on Blake—also flatlined because of last night.
Plan C—my fixer brain has been itching since Scarlett and Blake's blowup yesterday. There's a play in that mess. I just need to see it.
Time to observe.
Crisis Level: 9/10. Threat: Impending Financial Ruin & Heartbreak. Recommended Action: Locate the crack. Clock's ticking.
Four hours later.
The welcome reception for the first wave of wedding guests is in full swing—champagne flowing, unpronounceable cheeses disappearing fast, and bridesmaids chattering about the bachelorette party tonight.
But I'm not really listening.
My mind is stuck on Barbie's parting words from brunch.
"Natalie deserves better than Blake, Jane. And you deserve that fifty thousand dollars. So let's get our heads back in the game, yeah?"
Cue the shame-gratitude cocktail.
She could have said, "We're not paying you for orgasms, Jane. We're paying you for results."
But she didn't. She saw me trying. She gave me grace.
And I, Jane Elizabeth Cooper, am a complete sucker for kindness. Money, yes—that's part of it. But knowing she's placing her trust in me? Believing I can pull this off?
I’ll turn every stone on this island, flip the island itself if needed to deliver.
So I'm watching. Laser-focused.
Specifically, I'm watching Scarlett.
And she's everywhere.
Flawless in crisp white linen pants and a coral silk blouse, her tablet held like a shield.
She stays in the background as guests mingle, but she's coordinating staff, fixing problems before anyone else notices them, keeping the reception running smoothly before the soon-to-be-married couple arrives.
Her smile is steady, but her eyes are strained. Her movements are too precise. Her shoulders are rigid. She's working like someone who can't afford to stop moving.
For a split second, I almost feel sorry for her.
Maybe it's my determination to catch every detail. Maybe I'm projecting my own situation with West. But it seems Scarlett isn't just working hard—she looks like she's holding herself together through sheer force of will. Stopping would mean feeling, and she clearly can't risk that.
I don’t like how easily I recognize that look.
Get a grip, Jane. Do not put yourself in her shoes. She's the wedding planner sleeping with the groom.
A server offers me champagne in a flute so delicate I take it with both hands, careful, unobtrusive. Background furniture. Exactly where I need to be.
Then Blake enters the reception with Natalie, his hand on the small of her back. He's looking resplendent, oozing charm and attentiveness—the perfect groom. Natalie glows, greeting guests, pointing excitedly at floral arrangements, laughing at something he whispers in her ear.
And Scarlett is watching.
Her knuckles are white around the tablet. Her expression is carefully neutral, but her eyes track every touch, every whispered word, every moment of casual intimacy between Blake and his beautiful fiancée.
Blake tucks a stray strand of hair behind Natalie's ear, his touch lingering. It's a masterclass in performative affection.
Scarlett's jaw tightens.
She's stopped directing the staff. She stands frozen near the ice swan, her back ramrod straight. She isn't looking at them directly, but her head is angled just enough.
The professional mask is still there, but beneath it… oh, there it is. A flash in her eyes. Not just anger. Raw, possessive jealousy.
Directed squarely at Natalie.
The pieces click into place with an almost audible snap.
Scarlett isn't jealous of me.
She never was.
That couples massage was a test—just not the kind we thought.
With me, it wasn’t about jealousy.
It was about control.
She wanted to see if I’d crack.
If I’d be embarrassed. Shamed. Made small.
And she wanted to see what West would do when put on the spot.
He chose me. Publicly. Without hesitation.
That told her everything she needed to know.
I’m not the competition. I’m no longer worth her attention.
But the real jealousy? That's aimed at Natalie.
We thought we'd trigger her by making her jealous of me—mistress versus potential replacement.
But that's not what's happening here.
She doesn't see herself as Blake's mistress. She sees herself as his partner.
But right now, her partner is playing the devoted fiancé. He's touching Natalie's hand. Laughing at her jokes. Kissing her temple when her mother's looking.
And Scarlett—brilliant, competent, beautiful Scarlett—is watching the man she's sleeping with perform love for another woman.
Yet she’s doing the real work, managing the details, holding everything together while Blake plays the charming groom. She thought she was the hidden power behind the throne. The indispensable one.
And watching him shower Natalie with public affection—the woman he's actually going to marry, the woman who represents the merger, the status, the future—is destroying her.
She's realizing she's just the side piece. The dirty secret. The one he uses and very publicly puts down, discards when the performance requires it.
Blake isn't choosing her. He's choosing the merger. He's choosing Natalie. Publicly. Permanently.
Her pride is in tatters. Her sense of ownership over Blake, over this event, over her position—crumbling in real time.
And jealous people who feel slighted, discarded, publicly humiliated?
They get sloppy.
A slow, fierce smile spreads across my face.
Barbie wanted undeniable proof. I just found the detonator.
We need to make Scarlett believe Blake's already replaced her. That he's fully committed to the Natalie and discarding Scarlett entirely. If she feels utterly betrayed, publicly scorned, disposable… she'll blow. And when she blows, she'll take Blake down with her.
Messily. Visibly. Undeniably.
Game on.
Iquickly find West with the other groomsmen and drag him to a quiet alcove outside the reception.
“Jane? What’s wrong?” He’s instantly alert, scanning me for signs of distress.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, breathless with the force of my revelation. “Everything’s right. I figured it out. The plan.”
He raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms.
“Okay. Hit me.”
***
Five minutes later, West is leaning against the alcove wall, processing.
“So you want to… push her over the edge,” he says finally.
“It’s risky.”
"I know."
"If Scarlett figures out you're manipulating her, she'll retaliate. Probably against Natalie."
"I know that too."
"And if Blake catches on—"
"He won't." I lean forward. "Blake thinks he's the smartest person in every room. He thinks Scarlett will keep putting up with being sidelined because she always has. He won't see it coming."
West studies me. “You’re really good at this.”
“At what?”
“Seeing the pressure points. Knowing exactly where to push.”
I shrug. “Not sure about that. My job is to fix problems.”
I pause, the truth settling.
“And lately, the only way to do that is to stop containing them.”
His fingers brush my cheek. “It’s impressive.”
“And terrifying.”
“Thanks?”
“Jane.” His voice is serious now. “If we do this—if we trigger Scarlett and she breaks—there’s no going back. Natalie finds out. The wedding implodes. Blake’s family gets involved. This hits the press. It’s going to be messy.”
There’s no clean outcome anymore.
Only impact.
“Maybe that’s the point.”
Detonators don’t discriminate.
They take out everything nearby.
Including the person who set them.
"I know. But once we pull this trigger, you can't un-pull it. And you're going to be right in the middle of the fallout."
I look at him—at the bruise on his face, the care in his hands, the way his eyes miss nothing.
"I know what I'm signing up for," I say quietly. "Natalie deserves the truth. Grace deserves her tuition. And I deserve to finish this job and get paid."
His face tightens. "Is that all?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is this just about the job? About the money?"
My throat tightens. Because no. It's not just about the money anymore. It's about Natalie, who's about to marry a man who'll break her heart. It's about proving I can do this—that I'm more than just a chaotic fixer with a GED and a dream.
And it's about West. About having forty-eight more hours with him before this all ends and I have to decide if I'm brave enough to ask for more.
But I don't say any of that.
"It's about doing what I was hired to do," I say instead. "The rest... we'll figure out later."
West's jaw tightens. "Later."
"After the wedding."
He nods once, decisive. Then he pulls me into his arms, hands settling on my hips—steady, grounding. I breathe.
“One more thing,” he says quietly. “When this goes public, I’m not stepping back.”
I look up at him.
“I’m stepping in,” he finishes. “Right next to you.”
My pulse stutters.
“So let’s do this right,” he says. “Tell me what you need.”
Relief floods me, mixed with a fresh wave of adrenaline.
"We need Blake to make a grand gesture. A declaration. A promise. Something public that makes Scarlett believe she’s lost to Natalie."
"Tonight at the bachelor party, I need you and the groomsmen make a big deal about Blake and Natalie's epic love story. Toast them. Get sappy. Really sell it."
"While Scarlett's somewhere nearby, watching."
"Exactly."
"And you're doing what at the bachelorette party?"
"Same thing. Hyping up Natalie's wedding. Her perfect relationship. How lucky she is." I roll onto my side to face him. "Scarlett's coordinating both events. She'll hear everything. See everything."
“We’ll make her paranoid. Make her panic. Make her confront him. Demand answers. Something we can catch on camera.” I meet his eyes, the plan locking into place.
“Jealous people make sloppy mistakes, West. And Scarlett Thorne is about to be very, very jealous.”
“Trust me?”
He looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Something that looks dangerously close to what I’m feeling—but neither of us will name it.
Then he nods. “Always.”
The word lands between us like a vow.
“Tonight, then,” he says, voice rough. “We light the fuse.”
“And see what explodes.”
His hand tightens on my hip. Possessive. Protective.
“Whatever happens,” he says quietly, “we do this together.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Standing here—planning to weaponize a woman’s heartbreak while pretending my own isn’t at risk—
Professional Jane would call that a liability.