22
“Kidnap? Did I hear that right?” My own voice shot up a full octave.
Tess nodded with the calm of someone announcing they were out of milk. “Ryder loves that parrot more than he loves his own mother. If we kidnap him… Ryder will have no choice but to come to us.”
“Hold on a second.” I raised a hand, as if I could physically stop the stupidity seeping into my brain. “Maybe this is just the alcohol fumes talking… but as far as I know, not a single great seductress in history ever stole her future lover’s parrot.”
I burst out laughing. “I mean, imagine Cleopatra kidnapping Marc Antony’s goldfish. Or Caesar’s iguana.”
Tess shot me a glare sharp enough to cut a diamond. “And what do you know? All those love stories that start with a coincidence a little too perfect… you really think they’re nothing but the truth? ”
She straightened, jabbing a finger at me like a prosecutor in court. “Every time a man says: ‘It was fate. We met because she found my lost cat.’ You know what I think? She stole it first.”
A perfectly timed pause. Letting the words sink in like poison.
“Or ‘We bumped into each other in a bookstore, reaching for the same novel…’” Tess arched a brow. “That book’s been in her Tinder bio for three years. She bought it just for the scene. Never even read it. But she underlined a random line to look profound.”
I stared at her. Shook my head, smiling despite myself. You could never win against Tess. She dragged you into her world, and before you knew it… you were half-convinced that stealing a parrot wasn’t such a terrible idea.
Tess glanced around, all quick eyes and shallow breaths. Then—without a word, not even a “be right back”—she rose with the wobbly grace of someone who’d confused sparkling water for gin and headed straight for the reception desk.
“Where are you going?” I asked, though it came out more like the pitiful mewl of an abandoned cat than an actual question.
No answer needed. I knew the music.
I pushed myself up, and instantly the floor turned into the deck of a ship in a storm. My body tilted hard to the right in slow, inevitable motion, and for a split second I saw my future: sprawled face-first across the table of two men in pinstripe suits.
They were locked in a Wall Street–level negotiation. One of them shot me a glare so full of contempt it could’ve been served at the bar as an espresso ristretto.
“Pardon,” I slurred, correcting course like a fishing boat trying not to scrape the side of a thirty-meter yacht.
I managed to catch up with Tess just as she veered up a small ramp beside reception. At the top, a frosted-glass door gleamed like the secret gate to a forbidden temple.
Gold letters, elegant and slightly embossed, announced: The Vellum Animal Club.
Tess pushed the door open with the theatrical confidence of someone carrying not only an invitation but also a toast prepared for the afterparty.
Inside, it felt like stepping into a dream designed by a billionaire architect with an unhealthy obsession for animal comfort.
The air was warm, velvety, laced with fresh-cut grass and something indefinably soothing—like bottled inner peace.
In the background, soft hypnotic jazz floated—the kind of tune that could convince a hyperactive bulldog to sign up for meditation classes.
White faux-fur armchairs formed private little lounges, while aquariums set into the walls displayed fish with fins so long they looked like evening gowns.
Here and there, crystal bowls filled with “filtered water for discerning pets” sparkled under the low lights.
At the mini reception desk, a man in a flawless gray suit was bottle-feeding a tiny orange kitten, without a trace of irony. Over his jacket he wore a lilac apron tied with elegance. The name tag on his chest read: Lucas.
He looked up and smiled with the serene poise of someone trained to handle any emergency, including two wobbly strangers. “Good afternoon, ladies. How may I help you?”
“Bonjour, Lucas,” Tess said, in an improbable cartoon-French accent. “We just flew in from Paris. We only wanted a quick look around…”
Lucas kept smiling, though his eyes flashed a polite-but-firm not today, thank you. “Well, welcome to the Vellum Hotel. Unfortunately, this area isn’t accessible to human guests.”
“Oh, but my kitty is upstairs, Mr. Darcy. I thought I could bring him down here, let him play in this beautiful oasis.”
Lucas shook his head with the gentle firmness of a pacifist bouncer.
“I’m sorry, miss. To guarantee the well-being and serenity of our animals—and for security reasons—the Vellum Animal Club is strictly off-limits to owners or any hotel guests.
Our philosophy is that every animal, even for just a few hours, deserves a break from their humans.
No stress, no anxious stares. Only cuddles, play, and relaxation. ”
Tess leaned on the counter, tilting her head and arching one brow in what The Seduction Manual probably called Death Stare, Level 3. “Come on, Lucas. You won’t even let me take a little stroll around without touching anything?”
He didn’t blink. “Miss, not even Beyoncé has ever been allowed inside the Vellum Animal Club. And she tried. Twice.”
Before we could argue, a woman in her fifties swept in, wrapped in a cloud of jasmine perfume thick enough to lean on. Tucked under her arm: an ermine with the weary, jaded expression of an aristocrat done with the world.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rosen! Good afternoon, young Dorian!” Lucas trilled, gently placing the kitten in a velvet cradle before scooping up the ermine with dancer-like grace.
Mrs. Rosen, without so much as glancing at us, declared: “Lucas, today Dorian needs Chopin. Only nocturnes, please. And be sure to return him to my suite by seven. With a new cape. Italian silk.”
“Of course, Mrs. Rosen,” Lucas said, bowing ever so slightly.
He set Dorian back down, clipping a leash of ivory-colored leather onto his collar. Mrs. Rosen swept out, leaving behind a trail of old money, hand-pressed linens, and unattainable standards of living.
Lucas turned back to us, smiling that flawless, final smile that left no room for discussion. With one polite but unmistakable gesture, he pointed us toward the door.
Outside the Club, Tess let out a sigh. “Lucas is immune to my charm—he’s gay. And while I’m already operating at a ridiculously high level of seduction, I’m not yet at the Countess’s tier, where you can bend someone’s orientation. But one day… who knows.”
“So?” I asked, already certain I wouldn’t like the answer.
A mischievous spark lit up her eyes—the kind of spark that, in my nightmares, always foreshadows disaster.
“Come with me. I’ve got an idea.”