Chapter 30
BIX
Isit in the back of the limo, still buzzing from my performance. The leather seats feel cool against my heated skin.
But the triumph of the night is already fading—replaced by a gnawing awareness of Slayer’s absence. Of where he must be right now.
With Valentina.
I had expected some sort of reprimand from Sterling for lying about feeling sick, but he hasn’t mentioned finding me at the club.
Or at least not yet.
Right now he’s too absorbed in his phone conversation, exchanging meaningful glances with Milo that make me feel like a child who doesn’t understand the adults’ secret language.
The night air carries the scent of rosemary as our limo purrs through Saint-Tropez’s winding streets.
I touch my throat, still warm from singing, from being real, if only for a moment. From having an entire room of sophisticated people—people who’ve seen and heard everything—rise to their feet for me.
When we arrive at the hotel, the bellman helps me out. Sterling finally puts away his phone as we face each other in the marble lobby.
“Good night, Bix,” he says, voice smooth as aged cognac. “Don’t forget—twelve o’clock tomorrow. We’ll walk to the yacht together for the party.”
“Walk?” I try for lightness, hoping to end this strange evening on a better note. “Shouldn’t we take a helicopter?”
“Very funny.” Sterling’s smile appears. “That’s what I like about you. Your sense of humor.”
I resist the temptation to ask what he thought of my performance. And then I catch myself. What do I care what Sterling thinks?
The crowd at the club loved me. Paul said several important people asked for my contact information.
Besides, Sterling already made it clear my jazz style wasn’t “fit for the modern age.” Or something to that effect.
But I do care what Sterling thinks, so when he moves to the front desk to speak with the concierge, I seize my chance with Milo.
“Is Sterling angry with me?”
“Angry about what?” he asks.
I hesitate, my fingers finding Keesha’s Ethiopian cross. “Well, I lied to him. Said I was sick. Then he saw me singing in the cabaret.”
Milo makes a dismissive gesture. “Please,” he says. “Sterling has bigger things to worry about than that.”
His voice softens. “But you’re good, Bix. Really good. I thought so the first time I heard you. You have something—a style I’ve never heard before.”
“But what does Sterling think?” The words burst out before I can stop them. “Sorry. It’s just that they call him the starmaker for a reason.”
Milo’s smile turns knowing as he takes my hand. “Don’t worry, honey. You have nothing to worry about. But if I were you, I’d show Slayer some extra love. That’s why you were hired.”
Hired.
The word hits like a slap, reminding me that none of this is real.
Except...
Sam at the noodle shop felt real.
Too real.
The way his hands moved over my body, the way he looked at me before everything went wrong.
“I’m not in danger of being fired, am I?” I swallow hard, thinking of my student loans.
Thinking of being taken way from this weekend with Slayer before it’s had a chance to really begin.
Before Slayer and I have a chance to really begin.
“No. Not fired,” Milo says, but something in his pause makes my stomach drop. His manicured finger taps against his phone case.
“But you have to understand Sterling like I understand him. He plays the role of nice guy. Everybody’s skinny Santa Claus. But he can be treacherous in situations when—”
He breaks off suddenly.
“Situations when what?”
Milo shrugs, all studied nonchalance. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Tell me what you were going to say.”
His eyes flick to Sterling, making sure we can’t be overheard. “Just saying no one ever wins a negotiation with him.”
“What am I trying to negotiate?”
“All I’m saying,” he drops his voice as Sterling leaves the concierge desk, “is do whatever he says. Don’t counter him, and you’ll be fine.”
I leave them in the lobby and head to my suite. The door buzzes open with a quiet electronic beep.
I step into a scene that feels arranged—roses scenting the air, Champagne gleaming in its ice bucket, expensive chocolates artfully scattered around the bottle.
For a brief second, I imagine sharing this with Slayer. Him opening that bottle with the same confidence he does everything. Maybe holding one of those tiny chocolate delicacies to my lips.
I can just imagine his lips on mine…
The twisting in my gut isn’t just desire. It’s anger. Frustration. How did everything go so wrong?
If he had just taken me that night—if we’d actually made love instead of him being so noble about my virginity—maybe none of this would have happened.
I fling open my bedroom door. Should I leave it open? Half-closed? Locked? After all, Slayer will come back to the suite sometime tonight.
Or maybe he won’t.
My stomach clenches again, imagining him at Valentina’s villa. Is he drinking Champagne with her right now? Already in her bed?
The image of his hands on her body, those same hands that once touched me with such care, burns through my mind.
I close the door. And then lock it.
Sleep, when it comes, is anything but peaceful.