Chapter 10
The Hit and the Fall
Jane
“All hands on deck!”
When I get back from brunch with the Prescotts, the bridesmaids are already in full scramble mode. It’s the perfect sign-me-up cover to hover near a stressed-out Scarlett.
I just need her—preferably with Blake—to slip up.
Truth be told, I also don’t mind hanging out with the bridesmaids. They’re fun, harmless, and genuinely sweet in that glossy, destination-wedding kind of way.
But they’re also my employers, which means they supervise generously and move sparingly—so helping out turns into a shocking amount of cardio.
I’m cutting through the main pavilion, arms laden with more pink tulle for the blush-and-champagne beach extravaganza, when I spot West.
Well, West and Scarlett.
He’s not lounging by the pool or charming fans. He’s deep in conversation with Scarlett near the open-air wedding planning office.
His posture is relaxed but attentive, head tilted as she gestures sharply at a tablet. She looks stressed, her usual icy composure fraying at the edges.
West’s brow is furrowed in that intense, problem-solving way that usually makes my insides do a complicated little flip-flop. Now, it just makes my stomach clench unpleasantly.
I see West says something back to Scarlett and her shoulders drop a fraction. He points at the tablet, suggesting something. She nods, tight but agreeing.
A hot, stupid spike of jealousy jabs me right under the ribs.
You’re ridiculous.
He’s helping her because of the wedding, because chaos impacts Natalie, because he’s fundamentally a decent human being who fixes things.
Not because he wants to be within ten feet of the woman who tried to set him up for a scandal with me.
And probably for the same reason why I’m helping out—to catch Blake and her in their affair. Logically, I know this.
My lizard brain, however, sees his broad shoulders angled towards her, the focused line of his jaw, and wants to throw the Costco-sized box of condoms at his head.
Professionalism, Cooper.
I mentally hiss at myself, tightening my grip on the overwhelming amount of tulle.
You are a paid operative. He is your fake boyfriend/co-conspirator/accidental sex god.
Do not be the deranged raccoon in this Michelin-starred dumpster fire.
I plaster on what I hope is a vaguely pleasant, uninvolved expression and try to slink past.
Ten minutes later.
My phone buzzes.
West: Where are you?
I stare at the screen. He was literally just with Scarlett. Why is he texting me?
ME: Running errands. Why?
West: Haven't seen you since brunch. Miss you.
My stupid heart does a stupid flip.
ME: You were just talking to Scarlett.
West: About a missing floral delivery. Riveting stuff. When can I see you?
ME: Later. I'm working.
West: Fine. When do I get you back?
ME: Later. I’m still working.
West: Then I’ll wait.
West: Try not to vanish again. I don’t like not knowing where you are.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I shove my phone in my pocket before I can respond.
Before I can say something dangerous like "I'm counting on it" or "I can't wait"
At five PM, the bridal group gathers at the ceremony site for a first look at what’s been erected for the main event. It’s breathtaking—Pinterest Top 10 Dream Beach Wedding worthy.
White chairs fan out in gentle arcs across pristine sand, facing a driftwood arch draped in flowing ivory silk and bursting with tropical blooms. Just beyond, turquoise water laps softly at the shore as the sun begins its slow descent, painting everything in warm gold and coral.
Natalie stands under the arch, radiant in a flowing white sundress, beaming at her parents.
Blake is beside her, one arm slung loosely around her shoulders, a fresh drink already in his other hand.
He looks bored. Scarlett stands nearby, tablet clutched like a shield, her expression professionally serene. But I see the tension in her jaw.
West joins me by my side, his hand brushes my back.
“Surviving?” he murmurs.
“Barely. My feet are staging a revolt.”
He smirks. “I’ll carry you later.”
“Promises, promises.”
Scarlett steps forward and clears her throat. Her planner voice snaps into place—calm, crisp, impossible to ignore.
“Alright, everyone. Just a quick lay of the land. Bridesmaids, you’ll be lining up here along the path. Groomsmen, you’ll be just behind them. Musicians will be set up to the right of the arch—”
“Scarlett, darling? A small adjustment.” Natalie’s mother interrupts.
Scarlett’s smile doesn’t waver, but her knuckles whiten on the tablet. “Of course, Mrs. Ashford. What can I do?”
“The seating for the Vanderbilts and the Steinmetzes. Simply unacceptable to have them so far back. They’re major donors to the Ashford Foundation. They need to be moved. Front row, left side. Next to us.”
Scarlett takes a breath, “Mrs. Ashford, I understand the importance. However, rearranging seating assignments at this stage, especially for the front rows, presents significant challenges. We’d need to reprint all escort cards, reposition place settings, notify security for the revised VIP seating chart, and likely reassign several other guests to avoid offense.
It’s… quite complex with only three days until—”
“Oh, nonsense!” Blake booms, cutting her off. He takes a hearty swig from his glass. “It’s just shuffling a few chairs, Scarlett. Easy peasy. Do it.” He beams at Natalie’s mother. “Anything for family, right? Consider it done, Deborah.”
Scarlett goes utterly still.
For a heartbeat, the air tightens. The color drains from her face, then resurfaces in two controlled spots high on her cheeks. Her gaze locks on Blake—not heated, not emotional. Cold. Measuring.
Blake doesn’t notice. He’s too busy basking in Deborah Ashford’s pleased smile, playing the decisive groom.
Scarlett inhales once. Slowly.
“Of course,” she says, voice perfectly even. “Front row, left side. We’ll make the adjustment.”
She doesn’t look at Blake again.
Instead, she pivots back to the group, already issuing instructions.
The machine keeps moving like nothing happened.
Later, fetching a stray pashmina Barbie left near the arch, I cut behind the tall hedge screening the service path.
I slow down when I hear familiar voices.
Low. Furious.
Blake and Scarlett.
“You humiliated me,” Scarlett says, her voice stripped of its usual polish. It’s quiet, lethal. “You undercut me in front of everyone. You agreed to something you don’t understand and dumped it on me like it was nothing.”
“Don’t be dramatic, babe.” Blake mutters. His words slur slightly. He’s definitely been back at the open bar. “It was a simple request. You’re amazing at this stuff.”
There’s a pause. I reach for my phone and start recording.
“You didn’t need to jump in like that,” Scarlett says. Her voice is tight. “I had it handled. I’m already buried in wedding logistics… your wedding, and now this!”
Blake scoffs softly. “Relax. I was smoothing things over.”
“You were showing off,” she replies. Flat. Accurate. “For them.”
There’s a pause.
Then I hear Blake exhale. “Come on, Scar. You’re reading way too much into this.”
His tone drops, coaxing now. “You know how her family is. We’re almost there. Just… take care of it.”
Scarlett lets out a short, humorless breath. “I am taking care of it. That’s the problem.”
“You’re good at it,” he says quickly. “That’s why this works. You handle the details, I keep the Ashfords happy. We’re a team.”
“Natalie’s happy. Her parents are happy. So are yours.”
A breath.
“What about me?”
“Come on, baby. Don’t do this right now.” Blake’s voice dips low. “Later, Scarlett… I’ll make you so happy you’ll be screaming my name.”
“It’s not just about sex, Blake.”
A low chuckle. Too smooth.
“Funny. You never minded when I was giving you the best ride in your life.”
My stomach turns.
“That doesn’t give you the right to undermine me in front of everyone.” Scarlett snaps.
“I wasn’t undermining you,” Blake coaxes. “I was fixing it. For us.”
Another pause. His voice drops further. Intimate. Calculated.
“Handle it like you always do. Then later, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“That’s not how this works,” Scarlett fires back. “You don’t get to trade my authority for their approval.”
Blake sighs like she’s being difficult.
“It’s a wedding. This is literally your job.”
Her reply is instant.
“No. This is my job when I’m respected.”
Silence again. Thick. Charged.
Then Blake, lighter. Almost joking.
“Relax. You look so cute right now. You look cute when you’re mad. Best for makeup sex.”
When Scarlett speaks, her voice is ice.
“Stuff your cock away. You don’t get to charm your way out of this."
“I’ll be reworking the seating chart all through the night. Calling the rental company for additional chairs. Reassigning ushers. Rerouting the processional. Updating the photographer’s sightlines. And getting revised escort cards approved. All because you wanted to look impressive.”
A beat.
Then, colder: “If you ever put me in that position again, I won’t clean it up quietly.”
Then I hear her moving. Footsteps. Sharp. Purposeful.
Blake curses under his breath.
I press myself flat against the hedge, heart pounding, until I hear him stumble off in the opposite direction, cursing about needing a real drink.
I stop recording.
Ifind Barbie in the event hall —finalizing details for Natalie’s bachelorette night with two bridesmaids and a very patient resort concierge.
I hover. Wait. Bounce once on the balls of my feet.
Finally, she notices me. “Jane. If you have a strong opinion on tequila shots versus champagne towers, now is the time.”
“I have something better,” I whisper into her ear. “I got Blake.”
That does it.
“Five minutes,” she says briskly to her audience. Then she hooks a finger at me and steers us toward a quieter corner behind the drapes.
“What do you have?” She asks as she accepts one of my ear buds.
“Audio,” I whisper. “Scarlett. Blake. Just now.”
Her eyes sharpen. She pops the earbud in.