Chapter 35
BIX
“Here you are,” says Sterling, dressed in another white suit. Slayer is by his side, looking quite the contrast in all black.
“Milo went to the yacht early to direct the staff,” Sterling explains. “Let’s go.”
He launches into the first of many calls, and we fall in step behind him.
Slayer plays the role of the brooding Dark Prince well, I think, his face a careful mask of indifference. Only I know the man beneath it—or thought I did this morning on the turtle trail.
I distract myself by noting the sights and sounds of this charming fishing village. Despite its glamorous reputation and expensive hotels, it’s really just a small town where normal people live and work.
Two teen girls in bright red T-shirts stop Slayer for autographs. I watch as he obliges, signing the scraps of paper they give him.
When I was that age, I’d barely had the confidence to order coffee at Starbucks, let alone approach a rock god like Slayer.
Even bolder, the girls ask to pose for a photo with him.
“Would you do the honors?” he asks, handing me a phone.
“Uh, sure,” I say, snapping the shots. When the girls squeal and hurry away, Slayer slips the pen back into his inner jacket pocket.
“That was nice of you,” I offer, trying to bridge the silence between us.
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t be anywhere without my fans.”
We pass a corner bakery window. I glance in to see pastries glistening like glossy magazine models.
Bright red berries looking like jewels in gelée. Strawberries peeking out from folds of pastry cream and impossibly thin dough.
“OMG,” I breathe. “I’m going to swing back and pick up those little treasures,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe you’d like to join me for my afternoon snack?”
He doesn’t answer.
I stop walking to face him. “You’re angry at me. I feel it. But why? Carlos heard me sing last night and came to tell me he enjoyed it. Why is that a crime?”
Slayer’s gaze flicks toward the harbor where gulls skim the tide. He refuses to meet my eyes. Finally, he speaks.
“This morning, on the trail...I finally thought I could trust you. I believed your explanations. Thought you were real.”
“I am.”
“You make up stories as easily as you make up those mumbling scat lyrics, Bix.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You knew Carlos would be at Le Cave. You had it all arranged with Paul to take you there.”
I shake my head. “I thought we cleared this up this morning. I went for a walk because I couldn’t sleep.”
He tilts his head.
“What can I say that’ll make you believe me?”
“Nothing,” he says, turning toward the water. “Let’s just get through the press conference. We’ll pick this up after.”
“We’ll pick what up?”
But he’s already walking, and I can’t keep up in these teetering shoes.
Finally, I round a corner. The harbor unfolds like a photograph with a row of enormous yachts docked in perfect symmetry, sunlight glancing off the clean white hulls.
Milo gives me double cheek kisses as soon as I board. “You remember Pierre,” he says.
I smile and greet the attendant from our private jet.
“Champagne, mademoiselle?” Pierre offers.
I accept a flute and try to spot Slayer as the bubbles explode on my tongue. I find him talking with Valentina, dressed in a vibrant, tomato red dress. She laughs at something he says, her hand coming to rest on his forearm.
Jealousy punches me in the gut.
I pivot back toward Milo, who’s walking around with a clipboard in hand.
“Why is Valentina here?” I ask sharply. “I thought this event was press only.”
“Sterling likes her. And he likes her high-powered connections even more. He thinks she’ll prove a useful ally.” Milo gives me a look. “Still jealous?”
“No. I’m just—I’m supposed to be his girlfriend. Isn’t that what this press conference is all about?”
“You have ten minutes to start acting like Slayer’s girlfriend before the journalists arrive.”
With that, Milo sweeps off to join Sterling, who’s just gotten off the phone.
Behind us, music kicks up, a DJ working the decks.
I glance over again. Paul.
I hadn’t expected him here. After last night, I would have thought either Slayer or Sterling, or both, would’ve fired him.
I wave and walk over to say a quick hello. “What are you doing here? Are the journalists going to dance?”
“You never know,” Paul says with a grin. “Yachts always have a DJ. It’s part of the allure.”
At that moment, a woman with long black hair passes by, carrying a tray with stacked plates. She looks familiar...
“Bix, I’d like you to meet Sade,” Paul says. “Sade, Bix.”
We greet one another. “I remember you from Caroline yesterday. Congratulations on snagging Slayer,” she says with a wide smile. “I’ve been a fan of his music since I was a little kid.”
“Thanks. I am Slayer’s girlfriend,” I say, with a quick glance at Paul. “But I’m also a singer.”
“So am I!” she says. “Is Sterling Records your label?”
“No. Still looking.”
“Well, with Slayer as your boyfriend, I’m sure you’ll find something soon.” She excuses herself to start setting the tables for the journalists’ lunch.
“Nice girl,” I say, watching Sade leave. “Do you know her well?”
Paul nods. “Fairly well. We’re thrown together a lot at private parties. And Caroline of course. She’s a good singer. Carlos is interested in her.”
“Carlos?! He’s on a recruiting streak or something?” I had thought his feelings about my singing were the exception rather than the rule.
“Carlos is always looking for talent,” Paul says, lifting up one side of his headphones while he manually spins a track. “What’s up? Did he approach you too?”
I make a motion of zipping my lips. “Not saying one way or the other. I’m going to help Milo with the journalists.”
From what Milo’s told me, they’re an international bunch, mostly from Paris. But I could swear I spot Vanessa Sinclair from the New York Herald.
Milo confirms this when I ask. “Watch what you say,” he tells me. “She has a sharp tongue.”
The journalists board the yacht and set about enjoying Champagne, canapés, and the sound of Paul’s beats.
I mingle with them, answer casual questions, and smile for the cameras. Soon Slayer appears by my side, playing nice for the press.
“You’ve met my lovely girlfriend,” the Dark Prince says. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side.
The heat of his body sends a jolt through me, and for a moment, I forget this is all for show. His fingers press into my hip possessively, drawing me closer until I can feel his breath warm against my temple.
The journalists go wild for him, peppering him with questions. After a few minutes, Milo cuts it short, asking everyone to take a seat for the official press conference.
I take my place beside Slayer at a long table facing the journalists. Milo snaps a picture of us and calls out for me to look his way.
We’re perfectly framed in the shot, and well-coordinated too—me in Antoine’s soft white dress with a delicate strand of real pearls and Slayer in his signature black and silver.
Saint and sinner. Side by side.
If only I felt as comfortable as we must look together.
A French journalist kicks things off. “Slayer, I’ve read in some of your US interviews that your forthcoming album won’t be as dark as your previous work. Should we thank Ms. Bismark for the shift in tone?”
Slayer’s voice is molasses-laced velvet. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
His hand finds mine under the table, entwining our fingers in full view of the front-row photographers.
The gesture is perfect. Intimate, tender, exactly what a real girlfriend would experience. But his eyes remain distant, focused on the press.
Then an American reporter with sunglasses perched on his head leans forward.
“Slayer, let’s address what everyone’s dancing around: the satanic-orgy rumors. You’ve never denied them. Are they true? Should Ms. Bismark be worried?”
Slayer smiles slowly. “Depends on who you ask. Some say the real scandal is that I haven’t invited them to the party.”
Laughter explodes. Even I can’t help but smile.
As the journalists ask more questions, each one going further than the last, I’m impressed at the way Slayer handles them. No question stumps or fazes him.
His thumb traces circles on my palm, an intimate caress that makes my pulse quicken. For the cameras, I remind myself. This is all for the cameras.
Laughter crescendos. And for the first time all day, I feel warmth in Slayer’s glance. Just a touch. But it’s there.
The press conference winds down over more Champagne and applause, and gossip reporter Vanessa Sinclair rises first when the proceedings have finished, walking over to air-kiss someone across the room.
Slayer’s hand slips from mine, and he turns immediately to speak with someone who’s approached our table.
The absence of his touch leaves me cold.
Even more telling, Valentina appears at Slayer’s side moments later. She positions herself perfectly for photographs, her red dress even more vibrant next to his black ensemble.
The photographers who lingered after the conference snap eagerly, catching their easy rapport, the way she leans close to whisper something that makes him laugh.
I inch closer, straining to hear how Slayer is explaining Valentina to the press, especially since one goal of the conference was to talk about our relationship.
Slayer sticks to the standard story, that he and Valentina are high school friends. But anyone who looks closely at the way she’s practically hanging on him can guess there’s more to the story than that.
Suddenly, I feel like an extra in my own show. In a now-or-never moment, I make my way to Sterling. He’s standing near the bar, engaging reporters with his charming demeanor and building up the upcoming album.
“Mr. Sterling? Can I talk to you a moment?” I ask when he’s alone.
“Of course.”
“Carlos Rhodes came to see me this morning.”
Sterling raises a brow. “Ah. Crown Point Records.”
“He heard me sing. Twice now. He says he’s interested. He wants to talk with me when we’re back in New York.”
Sterling is quiet for a moment, swirling his Champagne thoughtfully. “That’s flattering, I’m sure. But it would be best to wait until we’re back in Manhattan to make any decisions.”
He begins to walk away, but then looks back at me. “And I suggest you perform your due diligence on Carlos Rhodes as well.”
“Wait. What are you saying?”
But he’s already turned back to Milo, nodding at the yacht staff who take it as a signal to start lunch.
Due diligence on Carlos Rhodes?
I glance across the deck to where Slayer still stands with Valentina, photographers circling them like sharks.
His arm is around her waist now, the same spot where his hand had rested on mine just a little while ago.
The moment on the turtle trail feels like a distant dream—the croissants, Oscar, the reconciliation I thought we’d reached.
Now Slayer is back to being the Dark Prince, and I’m just another prop in his carefully managed image.
I make my way to the railing to watch the water sparkle in the afternoon sun. As the yacht party continues behind me, I make a decision.
I’ll leave early, stop at that bakery on the way back to the hotel, and buy those pastries that caught my eye.
Maybe a little sweetness is exactly what I need right now.
Even if I have to enjoy it alone.