Chapter 5 Tit for Tat #2
A quiet laugh slips out of him, and just like that, the heaviness loosens.
“Good,” he says. “I’d hate to think you were doing this for free.”
“Please.” I take another sip and wink. “I don’t even answer emails for free.”
He clears his throat, focus snapping back into place. “Alright then. Let’s talk about your problem.”
I smile. “Yes. The reason I’m here.”
“Today, we’ll coordinate with Barbie Wintz and have you on the yacht as her plus one,” he says. “It’ll just be the couple and their friends. My family won’t be around.” His gaze holds mine. “So we keep it cool. No labels. No public couple act. And I’ll help you get time with Blake.”
“So,” I say, nodding, “I’m socially single.”
“Yes.”
“That helps.” I pause. “Although—just so you know—something tells me Blake might actually find me more interesting if he thinks I’m off-limits.”
West’s brow arches. “You’ve known him less than a day.”
“I’m observant.”
He studies me for a beat, then shakes his head. “Fine. We’ll adapt.”
“Good.” I lift my mug in a mock toast. “So on the yacht today—we’re just two people who happen to know each other.”
“And you get to work,” he says.
I smile. “I do my best work under pressure.”
His smile turns slow. Dangerous. Amused.
“Wonderful.”
I take a sip of coffee, already bracing myself.
The yacht is obscene.
Gleaming white decks. Polished chrome. Plush loungers. Staff in crisp white uniforms glide silently, offering flutes of champagne that probably cost more per sip than my weekly coffee budget.
The sea is an impossible turquoise, the sky a cloudless blue dome. It’s like someone dropped a billionaire’s playground into a postcard.
It’s beautiful—and I don’t want to wake up from this dream.
“Jane!”
I turn. Barbie waves from the shaded lounge area, patting the seat beside her with the kind of smile that says we need to talk about your performance metrics.
Wakey, wakey.
I weave through the beautiful people, dodging a waiter with a tray of something that involves edible gold, and drop into the seat beside her.
"You're not trying hard enough," she says as she sweeps in with an air kiss to establish my plus-one status to the rest on board.
"Good morning to you too."
"Blake barely noticed you at breakfast."
"Blake was sitting with Natalie at their bridal table. It would've been weird if—"
"Jane!” I hear my name again.
“Come settle a bet for us!” Blake’s voice carries easily, confident, practiced.
Every muscle in my body locks up. This is it. Natural interaction. Organic conversation. Do not sprint in the opposite direction.
Barbie gives my hand a squeeze. Not comforting. Directive. Ready. Camera. Action.
I stand. Smooth my dress. Channel my best Devil Wears Prada power-walk energy.
Blake’s circle opens to let me in.
He’s in swim trunks and an unbuttoned linen shirt, all golden tan and easy confidence. Objectively handsome. Subjectively, my skin does not approve.
“Jane,” he says warmly, like we’re old friends. “You seem like a woman of culture.”
“I’m a woman of whatever you think I am.”
Okay. That came out better than expected. Casual. Adaptable. Mildly mysterious. Points for delivery.
The men laugh. Blake’s smile widens.
“Champagne versus whiskey,” he says. “Which is the superior social lubricant?”
Softball. Easy in. Flirt. Eye contact. Light touch. Execute.
“Depends,” I say. “Are we lubricating toward good decisions or interesting stories?”
Nailed it. Clever without being try-hard. Someone write that down.
More laughter. Blake steps closer.
“I like the way you think.” His voice drops, intimate despite the crowd. “Most people here are so busy saying the right thing, they forget to say anything interesting.”
“Well,” I say lightly, “I’ve never been accused of subtlety.”
“No,” he agrees. His gaze slides down my one-piece swimsuit, then back up. Slow. Deliberate. Appreciative. “You definitely haven’t.”
My stomach tightens. I’m wearing the most conservative red swimsuit Serenella had, plus a breezy white cover-up. Surrounded by golden, bikini-clad yacht goddesses, I might as well be wrapped in a beach towel and a prayer… and it still feels like too little under his stare.
For a second, neither of us moves. The yacht rocks gently beneath us, and I'm acutely aware of how close he's standing, the way his eyes haven't left mine. My mouth opens—to say what, I have no idea.
Then a shadow falls across us, breaking the spell.
“Well, well,” Scarlett purrs, stepping forward. Her voice is smooth as honey. She extends a perfectly manicured hand towards me, nails like tiny daggers painted blood red.
“Scarlett Thorne. Wedding planner extraordinaire. We haven’t been properly introduced, have we, Jane?” Her grip is firm, bordering on painful. “Barbie’s little plus-one. How… unexpected.”
“Jane Cooper,” I say, trying to match her cool tone and probably failing.
She doesn't release my hand immediately. Her grip lingers, assessing.
"Jane, are you enjoying the festivities?"
Scarlett's gaze locks onto my face—cold, blue eyes that rake over me like I'm a stain on the pristine deck. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows lift a fraction.
“The place is breathtaking,” I say, aiming for polite and landing somewhere near strangled. My mission brain kicks in: Get close. Observe. Look for an opening. “The water is incredible.”
“Isn’t it?” Blake snakes an arm around me. Scarlett clocks it. My stomach twists like a vise under her stare. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
"Scarlett." West's voice cuts through my spiral. He's suddenly there, solid and immovable at my shoulder.
“West.” Scarlett’s smile doesn’t waver, but something flickers behind her eyes. Surprise. Irritation. Maybe both.
Natalie, radiant and oblivious, joins us with her bridesmaids. “What did we miss?”
"We were just talking," Scarlett says lightly, her voice honey-sweet, "about how weddings like this attract so much attention. From all sorts of people."
Her gaze slides over me.
"Men like Blake and West—they're used to being pursued. By women who don't always understand the... context."
The other bridesmaids have gone quiet. Merritt looks uncomfortable. Katelyn is suddenly very interested in her phone.
"Context?" I echo.
"Just that there will always be women who don't realize they're just a fast-food craving—not a meal worth savoring." Scarlett's smile doesn't waver. "Greasy fast-food burgers versus filet mignon, if you will."
Natalie's eyes widen. "Scarlett—"
The insult lands like a well-aimed dart. Fast. Cheap. Unrefined.
Positioning herself as the sophisticated, high-value experience Blake and West deserve, while I’m the trashy, disposable distraction. The McDonald’s to her Michelin star.
This is the hierarchy she believes in. Disposable versus chosen.
And she’s saying it here—
In front of Natalie.
With Blake standing right beside her, letting it happen.
The realization hits harder than the insult.
It’s not just cruelty—it’s ownership. A woman so comfortable in her position as the mistress, she can sneer at other women in public and expect the bride to swallow it with a smile.
Something sharp twists in my chest. Not jealousy. Not embarrassment.
Anger.
Because I’ve seen this before. Women reduced to categories. Worth measured by proximity to power. Silence mistaken for consent.
And Scarlett thinks she’s untouchable. That she’s already won.
I meet her gaze and let the polite smile fall away.
“You know, Scarlett, that’s an interesting perspective. But here’s the thing about filet mignon.” My voice is calm, clear, and carries just enough edge to cut through the yacht’s ambient chatter. I take a step closer, ignoring West’s subtle warning pressure on my back.
“It’s expensive. It takes forever to prepare. And sometimes?” I let my gaze drift pointedly towards Blake, then back to her. “Sometimes, after all that fuss, you take a bite and realize… it’s overdone. Maybe even a little tough. A little… disappointing.”
I shrug, aiming for nonchalant. “Meanwhile, that greasy burger? It might be simple. It might be messy. But it’s honest. It’s satisfying. And it doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.”
Silence. Utter, ringing silence descends on our little group.
Blake stares at me, his expression unreadable. Natalie looks bewildered.
The bridesmaids have stopped pretending not to eavesdrop.
West’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly on my back. Is it shock? Approval? I don’t dare look at him.
Scarlett’s face is a mask of icy fury. The red tips of her fingers tighten around her champagne flute. For a second, I think she might throw it at me.
Instead, she forces a brittle laugh. “Charming,” she spits. “Utterly… charming.”
She turns abruptly on her stiletto-heeled sandals, her sarong flaring, and stalks towards the bar.
The tension breaks. Blake lets out a low whistle, his eyes fixed on me with unnerving intensity. “Me-ow! Jane! Didn’t know you had claws. Well damn.”
Natalie frowns slightly, looking between Blake, Scarlett’s retreating back, and me. “What was that about?”
“Just a difference in culinary philosophy, darling,” Blake says smoothly, pulling her closer again. “Nothing to worry about. Come on, let’s go check out the snorkeling gear.” He leads her away, shooting me one last, lingering look over his shoulder.
Sloane catches my eye, gives a tiny nod. Katelyn gives me a thumb’s up. Then they immediately herd the rest of the girls a few steps away into a tight little huddle that screams gossip in progress.
The moment they’re out of earshot, West spins me to face him. His eyes are blazing. “What the hell was that?”
My bravado wobbles. Not because I regret what I said—but because consequences are a thing.
“I… I don’t know!” I admit. “I wasn’t going to stand there and let her talk like that. Not in front of Natalie. And calling me cheap fast food when she… she…! Argh, I just… reacted!”
I drag a hand through my hair.
“Did I blow it? It was bad, wasn’t it? Did I just ruin everything? But if that costs me fifty grand, then—”
I wince.