CHAPTER THREE
BELLA
THREE MONTHS LATER
Sixty thousand users. Four thousand VIP.
That had to be a record. At least, it was a record for me, and this was only my fourth live event. What would this account look like when it was my eighth? Or twelfth? Will I be able to keep up this momentum?
“You guys are in for a treat,” I said to the iPhone camera affixed to a tripod about five feet from my bed.
I didn’t love shooting in my most personal space, but for now, I had no other option.
The living room was too small, and I still wasn’t financially comfortable to start looking for a better apartment to rent.
After all, it had only been two weeks since my bank account had gone from negative to positive.
I needed at least a few more profitable months to feel like I could make riskier decisions.
Maybe I’ll earn most of that tonight. At least I don’t have to work for Alex Klein anymore.
“I’m wearing something new,” I said to the camera as I ran my fingers along the silky lace edge of my bathrobe.
I studied the list of names on-screen. These were my premium subscribers, and some of them had been with me since my first twenty-four hours on FanZone.
Most had ambiguous names, but my itemized monthly receipts told me they were from all over the world.
It didn’t really matter anyway. I felt so much more confident than the first time I uploaded a picture.
No one knew me on FanZone, so it was almost liberating to feel free.
I was simply @marie0505. “This is just for you guys.”
A few typed responses on the screen. I’m sure it’s hot... Can’t wait to see... Love your pussy...
I read a few before I untied the robe sash and stood up. “Are you ready?”
They were. I wasn’t sure why I bothered asking.
They were here for one thing, and one thing only.
I got off the bed and moved closer to the camera.
Just like always, I kept my face mostly out of the frame, but the subscribers still had a full view of my body.
After a breath, I let the fabric fall to the floor, reminding myself this was a closed connection in a private online chatroom.
“What do you think?” I asked.
I wore a translucent black bra. It was a mix of elastic, ties, and gauzy fabric that left exactly nothing to the imagination.
While I was wearing it, anyone could see my nipples and the rounded shape of my breasts, which threatened to spill out the tops of the cups.
The matching underwear was even less—just as strip between my legs and over the rise of my hips. I wasn’t hiding anything from anyone.
But wasn’t that the main point of FanZone?
I read a few more comments, and one stuck out to me. You don’t have to do this wrote @DoubleCWest.
I stared at it for a beat, flipping through what I knew about this user, then through what the FanZone dashboard told me.
They were one of my first premium subscribers, but this was the first time they’d logged on to a live event.
Their credit card traced them to the United States, but they’d never commented on anything before.
Leaning over, I considered typing a reply in the chat box.
But then I didn’t. They were probably just another anonymous loser in their parents’ basement, looking to waste time on a Saturday afternoon, and hoping to push away the creeping loneliness that came with living in a world where so much interaction was conducted online.
“I only have five minutes,” I said to the camera after a quick glance at the clock on my screen. “I have plans tonight, but I’m going to make sure this is worth your time.”
Squaring my shoulders, I pasted a smile on my face and unhooked the front clasp of my bra.
FOUR HOURS LATER
“You look amazing,” Kyra said as our rented black town car pulled up to the valet line. “I wish I’d bought that dress.”
“Thanks.”
I looked at the cascading black chiffon skirt puddling at my feet.
After my live event on FanZone, wearing this much clothing felt odd.
Then, I’d been naked. Now, I was dressed to the nines.
I pushed my discomfort about this away. The trick to this was to compartmentalize things, and to keep one side of my life from bleeding into the other.
The dress was haute couture and a huge splurge, but I had to agree with my best friend.
It fit like it was made for me. Besides, now that my bank account wasn’t dangerously low, I could afford some pretty things.
After what I’ve been through, I deserve it.
“It feels nice to wear it. Kind of like being in my old life for one night.”
Kyra pursed her lips and took my hand in hers. “Thank you for coming tonight. It means a lot.”
“You’re welcome.” I stared out the window at the large estate ahead.
It was Italian revival, with lots of arches and a wrought iron entrance gate flanked by security guards with earpieces.
Once, places like this were a regular part of my life.
Now, I was just glad to be here and thankful that Kyra had invited me.
I really don’t deserve her. “I’ve already told you it’s not your fault, and you can’t change what happened to my dad. ”
“I’m glad you came.” Kyra squeezed my hand. “It’s a lot easier with you here.”
That night, I was Kyra’s plus-one, and an invite to fill one of the extra tickets her family had in spades at this fundraiser for the National Breast Cancer Research Foundation.
Kyra never liked attending formal evenings, but her father had insisted on this one, and she gave in to his demands in exchange for a truce from their biggest battle, which centered on his disgust over her choice to manage a bar instead of earning a degree from Princeton.
If he didn’t needle her too much about her life decisions, she promised to attend at least this high-end party during the Palm Beach winter social season.
“I’ll be your wing woman anytime,” I replied as the car pulled to a stop at the red-carpet entrance. “But maybe I’ll rent a dress next time.”
She laughed and we exited, stepping onto the plush tapestry threads that wound through bougainvillea and past manicured palm trees before opening to a wide lawn overlooking the ocean, a zero-entry pool, and a stone patio dotted with large terra cotta pots.
I estimated a few hundred of Palm Beach’s most connected couples filled the open space between the pool and the beach.
Above us, hundreds of Italian lights threaded through the large palm trees, the night sky casting a warm glow on the immaculately dressed crowd.
I paused when I stepped from the edge of the carpet onto the thick grass. Anticipation curled in my stomach. God, it had been so long since I’d dared to show my face at something like this. Was I out of practice? Would I know what to do?
Here goes nothing.
Taking a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter, I threaded through the edge of the crowd.
Many of the faces were familiar. By the bar near the corner, Stetson Rothschild and his wife, Stella.
Behind him, Newton Price and his long-suffering girlfriend.
Still farther away were the Andersons, with Braxton Anderson in tow, no doubt home for the holiday from Columbia.
All these people had once been part of my family’s social circle, clawing and scraping for a piece of my dad’s success.
But that night, not one of them seemed to recognize me.
Which didn’t bother me one bit.
I hadn’t expected them to realize who I was.
After all, it had been years since they’d seen me, and back then, I’d only been a gangly and introverted teenager.
Now, I was a woman, but instead of being the center of attention, I was only here to observe and reminisce.
I was an outsider looking in, and that was exactly the way I wanted it.
Kyra stopped to chat with Jim Hudson, her father’s leading business partner, and I used the moment as an excuse to make my way to the silent auction adjacent to the pool house front door.
Whoever had put together the items for bidding had done a fantastic job, and I marveled at the six long tables teeming with offerings.
Everything from designer handbags to luxury vacation packages was displayed, along with QR codes and signs explaining the minimums required.
There had to be at least a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of items on offer.
“Did you sign up at the front?”
The thick, deep baritone voice made me jump, then turn toward it. My answer died in my throat. Oh, holy shit.
“Hi,” Cade Weston said.
I would have recognized him anywhere. I might have changed in the decade since I’d last seen him, but the years had hardly altered his features. Same thick brown hair and smoldering eyes. Same square shoulders and a hint of a smirk on his full lips. And the same quality of designer suit.
Fucker.
“Hi.” I narrowed my eyes. Do I hear recognition in his voice? Something in his tone...
“I didn’t see your name on the guest list,” he added.
My toes curled inside my new strappy sandals. He does remember me. “I’m a plus one.”
Cade lifted his chin, and the overhead Edison lights highlighted the hint of stubble. “Well, it’s nice to see you again, Bella.”
I stiffened at the way he pronounced my nickname.
If it had been anyone else, I might have liked it, and I might have welcomed the round richness of the way it sounded in Cade’s naturally low octave.
But this was him, Cade Weston, the son and heir of the one person who defeated my father in a business deal.
And consequently, ruined my life.
He was my enemy.
“I don’t feel the same about you.” I stepped backward and gripped the auction table.
“Wow.” He angled his head. “That’s direct.”
“Why wouldn’t it be, considering the last time I saw you?” I winced at the memory. My father’s funeral.
Cade had the temerity—no, the cruelty—to show up at St. Clement’s for the service. He sat in the back, but it didn’t matter. I’d seen him. I’d known he was there.
How dare he.
“I’d tell you to leave, but it’s not my party,” I said as the band roared to life near the edge of the pool deck, launching into a medley of Steely Dan songs. “Still, as it is—”
“Just tell me one thing,” Cade said, his voice louder as he competed with the music. “One thing, then I’ll leave you alone.”
I gulped. Given who he is, that could be anything. “Fine. I’ll play your game.”
He stepped closer, and I instinctively pressed against the edge of the table, the metal digging into my thighs through my dress.
I smelled his cologne, a mix of sandalwood, pine, and vanilla that wafted to my nostrils and threatened to stir something primal inside me.
A decade later, and it didn’t matter. Cade Weston had been handsome then, and he was still that way now, sharpened by the passage of time but not dominated by it.
And there was no mistaking that, even as every cell in my body sprang to attention, I was ready to battle with the man I blamed for so much.
He studied my face for a long time. “How’d you come up with a name?”
I squared my shoulders. “What name?”
He leaned all the way in, his lips brushing my blown-out hair, and I knew he wanted to make sure I heard the next part. “For the FanZone account? How did you come up with @marie0505?”
Oh, hell no.
I recoiled and pushed off the table, then stepped to the side, my gaze locked on him. We were not doing this. Not here, not now, and not after everything. There was no way. Cade Weston had no right to ask that question, and there was no way I was going to give him an answer.
“Fuck you,” I said instead. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
Then, I pushed past him and disappeared into the thick crowd.