Chapter 2 #2
Should turn around, head back to the main room, pretend I never heard anything. That's what the old West would do—the one who believed loyalty meant protecting your friends from their own mistakes, even when those mistakes were about to destroy innocent people.
But I don't move.
Maybe it's the scotch. Maybe it's the weight of two months of rejection sitting heavy on my mind. Maybe I'm just tired of being the one who always looks the other way.
I push the door open.
A woman who definitely isn't Natalie is pressed against the far wall.
She's stunning in that effortless way that takes hours to achieve—dark hair falling loose from what was probably a sleek bun, her red dress pulled down to her waist, breasts exposed and bouncing as Blake's hand works between her thighs.
His other hand grips her hip, holding her in place as she gasps against his neck, her head tipped back, eyes closed.
Blake's fingers move faster. She makes a sound that's half-moan, half-plea.
My body reacts before my brain catches up.
Blood rushes south despite every rational thought screaming that this is wrong. Heat pools low in my gut despite the disgust churning in me.
Three years of celibacy. Three years of saying no to every woman who looks at my bank account before my face. Three years where my most reliable relationship is with my right hand and a bottle of lotion.
Yeah, three years of discipline and control and this is what gets me hard?
Watching my best friend with another woman while his fiancée sits at home planning seating charts and choosing flowers.
What the hell does that say about me?
What the hell is going to happen when I actually meet a woman who deserves to be touched?
Blake notices me first.
But he doesn't stop. Doesn't pull away. His hand keeps moving, fingers pumping faster while he grins at me over his shoulder like I just walked in on him checking his email.
"West." His voice is steady. Unrepentant. Amused, even. "Give us a minute?"
Her eyes snap open. She sees me, and for a split-second something flashes across her face—surprise, maybe, or calculation, like she's already running through scenarios for how to handle this—before smoothing into cool composure.
She pushes Blake's hand away with practiced efficiency and tugs her dress back up, adjusting the fabric like she's straightening her collar after a business meeting.
"Mr. Prescott."
And that's when it clicks. The voice. The face I've seen in email attachments with groomsmen’s wedding plan.
Scarlett Thorne. Their wedding planner.
"Get out," I say to her.
Blake laughs. "Come on, man. Don't be—"
"Get. Out."
My voice drops into the register I use on the ice. The one that makes rookies shut up and veterans take a step back. The one that says I'm done being reasonable and if you push me right now, you're going to regret it.
Scarlett hears it. Recognizes it for what it is. She grabs her clutch from the bar and walks past me without another word, her heels clicking against the marble floor with the confidence of someone who's been thrown out of better places than this.
The door clicks shut.
Blake's already at the bar, pouring himself another drink like nothing happened. Like I didn't just catch him with his hand up another woman's dress a week before his wedding.
"You want one?" He holds up the bottle.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Blowing off steam." He takes a sip, grimaces slightly. "Wedding planning is stressful. You'll understand when it's your turn."
"You're getting married in a week."
"I'm aware." He pours a second glass, slides it across the bar toward me like we're having a friendly conversation about sports instead of his systematic betrayal of someone who trusts him. "When's the last time you got laid, West? Two years? Three?"
"That's not—"
"Three years," Blake says, grinning wider now. "I remember. The Caroline disaster. You've been a monk ever since."
He gestures toward the door Scarlett just walked through. "Seriously, man. You need to loosen up before your celibate cock falls off entirely."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Not embarrassment—anger. The kind that sits cold and sharp in my chest, waiting for a target.
"I could call Scarlett back," Blake continues, like he's offering me a beer instead of his mistress. "She's very... accommodating. Might be fun. The three of us. Consider it a bachelor party preview."
My hands curl into fists.
Three years since I've touched a woman, and he's dangling temptation in front of me like I'm some desperate rookie who can't control himself.
The worst part? My body is still half-hard from what I walked in on, and he knows it. He can see it. He's weaponizing it.
"You're serious."
"Why not?" Blake shrugs, pouring himself another drink. "No strings. No consequences. Scarlett loves an audience. And you clearly need it—I saw your face when you walked in. You looked like a man dying of thirst."
The anger crystallizes into something cold and sharp.
"That's not happening," I say.
"Your loss." He drains his glass in one swallow. "But don't come crying to me when you're forty and still jerking off to memories of your college girlfriend."
I could hit him.
Should hit him, maybe.
In hockey, this is when you drop the gloves.
It wouldn't be the first time I put a guy through the boards. Once I hit a player so hard his helmet cracked. Broke his nose. Two games suspended, twenty grand in fines.
Worth every penny to watch him learn respect.
But in Blake's world, you smile and play nice.
Well, screw Blake's world.
Blake sees the calculation in my eyes. The way my weight shifts forward. The way my hands are still curled into fists.
He grins wider.
"There he is. The Shutdown Center." He sets his glass down carefully. "Go ahead, West. Throw a punch. Just avoid the face—I need to look good for the photos. Won't change anything, though."
"You really think this is fine," I breathe slowly. "Screwing the wedding planner while your fiancée picks centerpieces? What's next, Blake—banging the florist during the rehearsal?"
"It's really not that deep." Blake shrugs like we're discussing restaurant choices. "Natalie wants the fairy tale. The Prince Charming. The ring. The perfect wedding. I give her that. She doesn't need to know how the world really works."
My chest constricts. "She's not a child."
"She's twenty-three," he says lightly. "She still believes love fixes things. That if you just care about someone enough, everything works out." He pours another drink. "I let her keep that. It makes her happy."
"By lying to her."
"By not forcing her to see the dark parts." His eyes flick toward the door. "That's what women like Scarlett are for. The parts Natalie doesn't need to see. The parts that would hurt her."
The casual cruelty of it lands like a punch.
"The marriage is a business arrangement," Blake continues.
"The Hartwells and the Ashfords have been working toward this merger for two years.
There are contracts, board positions, hundreds of jobs riding on this deal going through.
Natalie gets security, status, access to circles she'd never reach on her own.
I get a wife who looks good in photos and won't embarrass me at charity galas.
What I do in my private time doesn't change any of that. "
"A business arrangement."
"Yeah. But more than that." He says it like it's obvious. Like everyone operates this way and I'm naive for thinking otherwise. "This isn't about love—it's about legacy. Call it lifelong partnership. About building something that lasts. Something that matters beyond feelings."
"By betraying someone who trusts you."
"By making smart choices." He moves closer now, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath and see the slight flush in his cheeks that means he's had more to drink than I realized.
"And speaking of smart choices—my father's been talking to Morrison & Associates.
You know them, right? Big sports law firm.
They're interested in bringing you on as counsel when you retire.
Contract negotiation. Arbitration. You'd be perfect for it. Natural transition."
There it is.
The hook.
The leverage.
The gentle reminder that everyone wants something from me, and everyone has something to offer in return.
"That kind of opportunity," Blake continues, watching my face carefully now, "depends on maintaining relationships. Trust. Professional networks." He pauses. "You understand what I'm saying?"
I understand perfectly.
He wants me complicit. Wants my silence purchased with promises of a future I'm not even sure I want. Wants me to stand beside him at that altar and smile for the cameras while he destroys a woman who doesn't deserve it.
"So let me get this straight," I say slowly.
"You want me to be your groomsman. Stand up at your wedding.
Watch you marry someone you just called a business arrangement.
Keep my mouth shut about the fact that you're sleeping with the wedding planner.
And in exchange, you'll get your father to throw me a job at a mid-market law firm I never asked about.
A firm that would love to say they hired a Prescott? "
"I want you to act like my best friend," Blake says, and for just a second his mask slips.
There's something underneath—desperation, maybe, or fear, or the ghost of the twenty-year-old I used to know before life taught him that everything has a price and everyone can be bought.
"I want you to understand that life is complicated.
That sometimes you have to make choices that aren't perfect but serve the greater good. "
"The greater good."
"Yes. The greater good."