Chapter 29
SLAYER
“You must see my villa,” says Valentina, her warm, brown eyes sparkling as she lifts the Champagne to her glossy red lips.
“It has a view of the entire city. From the jacuzzi tub, it’s quite an experience.”
Her fingers brush mine, a deliberate touch loaded with memories of a time when I would have given anything for her attention—when I was just Sam, invisible in her aristocratic world.
“Once you’re behind its locked gates,” she whispers, leaning closer, “you’re free to be Sam again. You can leave Slayer and all his props behind.”
The offer is tempting—more than she knows. To shed this skin I’ve worn for so long, even for a night? I would love to step off the carousel of expectations, photo ops, and carefully crafted soundbites.
I nod noncommittally and redirect my attention to the musicians tuning up at Le Cave.
I’ve been here before, alone and undercover, baseball cap pulled low, just another face in the crowd.
Not like tonight, with Sterling and Milo having conspicuously booked a large, elevated table in the back, making sure everyone knows the Dark Prince has arrived.
Most nights, this place is a casual underground hideaway where musicians, both famed and unknown, feel safe to play without judgment. But tonight, my fame hangs in the air like heavy perfume.
Fellow guests—mostly locals or upscale tourists in the know—cast glances our way, their whispers barely concealed.
They’re likely wondering if my presence means I’ll leak a new song from my anticipated album, give them an exclusive preview of what’s coming.
No one’s been gauche enough to demand an autograph, but my body still tenses for that inevitable ask. The constant performance, even off-stage, exhausts me.
I wish I’d followed Bix’s lead and feigned illness to escape to the quiet of my hotel room.
Bix. The thought of her brings irritation and something else I refuse to name.
The way she danced on that table at Caroline earlier today, her obvious jealousy of Valentina at dinner—it’s all getting too complicated.
This was supposed to be a straightforward business arrangement. Not whatever it’s becoming.
“What’s going on in that gorgeous mind of yours?” Valentina purrs, her fingertips tracing patterns on my forearm.
Before I can answer, the house lights dim. The crowd’s pleasant murmur fades as a spotlight hits the small stage.
And through the shifting lights, I’m startled to see Bix approach the microphone.
Bix.
Just an hour earlier, she pleaded exhaustion and retreated to her room. Now here she is, looking very much like the woman I first met at that noodle shop.
She’s dressed in simple jeans and a top, those long strands of pearls catching the stage lights.
The pearls may be fake, but Bix’s presence is all too real.
Something dark and possessive coils in my gut when I see some kid in the front row blow her a kiss. The guy looks familiar...
Suddenly I place him. The DJ from Caroline. The one who helped her onto that table. The one she danced for while I sat with Valentina.
They clearly know each other. But how? When did they meet? What else don’t I know about Bix’s adventures in Saint-Tropez?
Gut instinct tells me there’s nothing romantic between them. The kid looks barely old enough to shave. He’s no threat that way.
But there’s something there, some shared secret I’m not part of.
“Isn’t that your little girlfriend?” Valentina says, following my gaze. “I thought she was indisposed.”
“So did I,” I reply, my voice tight.
Sterling leans forward, coffee forgotten. “What is she doing here?” he asks, sounding more curious than angry.
I ignore him, watching as Bix takes the microphone in hands that can’t quite hide their trembling. For a moment, everything in the room stills.
Then she begins to sing.
The first note hits me like a physical force. Pure, soulful, with a rawness that cuts through the polished veneer of the room.
This isn’t the voice of someone playing at being a singer. This is the real thing.
“Mon dieu,” Valentina breathes. “She’s actually good.”
Good doesn’t begin to cover it.
Bix’s voice carries emotional depth I’ve rarely heard outside of legendary recording studios. The emotion in her song fills every corner of the room like a soulful mist.
I watch her performance with restrained awe. Though I heard her sing in Sterling’s audition room, I had been too surprised, too angry, to focus on her voice, her charisma.
As she concludes, thundering applause fills the air, amplified by the cave-like walls.
You don’t often see this sort of enthusiastic response in too-cool-for-you clubs like Le Cave. But here is Bix, shining in her element.
“Well,” Valentina says softly. “Your girlfriend is full of surprises.”
I nod, watching Bix accept congratulations from VIPs of the fashion and music world who crowd closer to the stage.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Prince Abdul snap at his attendants, whispering to them as he points at Bix.
My gut tightens. What’s Abdul planning? Would he invite Bix to his suite? Bix is my girlfriend, fake or not. This is getting out of hand.
Sterling sets down his glass, his eyes bright with interest. I’ve learned to read his mind over the years.
He’s mentally calculating the potential money to be made, connections to be formed.
Even Milo is applauding with genuine appreciation, his dating app long forgotten.
And Carlos Rhodes is watching from a corner table, his expression calculating as he studies Bix.
Unlike the other industry executives swarming the stage, he hangs back, observing rather than engaging.
When he catches me looking, he raises his glass in toast.
Another predator in the water, sensing opportunity. First Sterling packaged Bix as my girlfriend, now Carlos is eyeing her as potential talent. Everyone wants a piece of her for their own purposes.
“This Bix of yours. She’s quite remarkable,” Valentina says.
Sterling seems to take her statement as if it’s meant for him. He strokes his fashionable gray stubble. I sense he’s seeing beyond our PR plan now, beyond the girlfriend charade.
He’s seeing what I saw that first night, what I tried to ignore when anger clouded everything else.
“Yes. She is, isn’t she? I missed the depth of her talent when she auditioned. At the time, it was the last thing on my mind.”
He takes a thoughtful sip of his drink.
“I was charmed by her spirit, her energy, her joie de vivre. I thought she’d make a good romantic sidekick for the Dark Prince. A bright force to counter the negative publicity barraging Slayer.”
“And now?” I ask with a smirk.
He gestures toward the stage, where Bix is taking another bow to lingering applause.
“My grandfather taught me to approach the business with a marketing-first mentality. That’s been my key to success. When Bix auditioned, I had no idea how to promote a singing style that died out nearly a century ago.”
“Do you now, boss?” Milo asks.
Sterling shrugs. “Necessity is the mother of invention. I’ll find a way. But this is definitely backburner until Slayer’s launch. No one say a word. I don’t want to raise her expectations until I’ve worked it out.”
I applaud Bix with the others, thinking of her voice. Raw, pure, impossible to package or control. The kind of talent that makes people feel something real.
The same honesty I heard from her that night we spent together, before contracts and lies complicated everything.
Now I watch as Paul—that’s his name; I remember Milo mentioning it—touches her elbow, guiding her through the crowd to meet some reporter.
My hands tighten on the arms of my chair, but I force them to relax. I have no right to jealousy. There’s nothing between us but a dry contract.
The crowd won’t let Bix leave the stage. Even the jaded Saint-Tropez elite, people who have seen everything, own almost everything, are still calling for more.
In her jeans and casual shirt, Bix looks beautiful, real. No trace of Sterling’s careful packaging remains.
“Our little Bix is sure turning heads,” Milo says, a smile on his lips.
Watching Paul guide Bix through her admirers, his hand hovering at her waist, twists something inside me.
Part of me wants to punch him in the face. The other part thinks it might be safer to avoid my fake girlfriend until our next scheduled publicity event.
“Well,” Sterling says, rising from his seat with the smooth efficiency of a man who’s made decisions. “We’d better collect Bix and get back to the hotel.”
“Why don’t you all join me for a nightcap at my villa?” Valentina suggests.
“Maybe tomorrow,” says Sterling. “Milo and I have some work to go through before we call it a night.”
“I’ll go with you, Valentina,” I say, surprising myself.
Valentina has nothing I’m interested in now, but no way do I want to share a hotel suite with Bix tonight.
Not after seeing her like this—authentic, talented, drawing everyone to her like moths to flame.
“Wonderful.” Valentina smiles.
“Okay. Milo and I will collect Bix and make sure she gets back to the hotel safely.” Sterling’s tone is light, but his eyes assess me carefully. “Don’t forget—yacht party at noon tomorrow.”
With a nod, we make our way toward the front of the club, where Bix now poses for photographs with several well-dressed patrons. She laughs at something Paul says, her face alight with genuine joy.
She glances our way, her triumph fading slightly when she sees us preparing to leave.
For a moment, our eyes meet across the room. Something unspoken passes between us—a question, perhaps, or a challenge.
Then Valentina’s hand finds my arm, and the moment breaks.
“Darling,” Sterling says to Bix, smoothly inserting himself into her circle of admirers. “Quite the performance. You’ve been holding out on us.” His tone is jovial, but I catch the calculation behind it.
“I didn’t think anyone would be interested,” Bix replies, her eyes flicking to me briefly.
“On the contrary.” Sterling gestures to the still-applauding crowd. “But it’s getting late, and we have that yacht party tomorrow. Milo and I were just heading back to the hotel.”
I watch as understanding dawns on Bix’s face—she’s being collected, managed, returned to her assigned role.
“I’ll just say goodbye to Paul,” she says, turning to the young DJ.
I tense, observing their farewell, my body rigid as I watch for their kiss—and what kind of kiss it is.
But Paul just gives her the typical French kiss—one on each cheek—and they wave goodbye. No hugs. No fond farewells. Just that.
I feel myself relax marginally.
“Slayer is joining me for a nightcap at my villa,” Valentina announces, her arm sliding through mine possessively. “We have so much catching up to do.”
Bix’s expression crumbles for just a moment before she masters it. “Enjoy your evening,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.
“Shall we?” Valentina urges, tugging me toward the exit.
As we leave, I glance back one last time. Sterling has his arm around Bix’s shoulders, guiding her toward their waiting car, already on his phone making another deal. Milo follows, typing furiously on his own device.
Bix looks back just once. Then the doors close behind us, and Valentina leads me into the warm Mediterranean night, toward her villa and whatever further complications await there.