Chapter 13
Saints and Thunder
West
“To the groom.”
I raise my glass with the other groomsmen, the amber liquid catching the low light of The King’s Room—all dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and the acrid bite of cigar smoke layering the air. It’s the kind of exclusivity that comes with a five-figure venue rental and suited bouncers.
The Meridian Club. Where wealthy men celebrate their “last night of freedom” by proving exactly why they shouldn’t be trusted with freedom in the first place.
I saw it on the way in—the deliberate theater of the place.
A grand marble-floored lobby beneath soft gold lighting, framed by two identical circular staircases that curl upward with choreographed elegance.
They rise together, converge at a shared arched landing, then split again, decisively, into two doors.
One marked: The King’s Room. One marked: The Queen’s Room.
A brass plaque between them reads: Gentlemen’s Entertainment / Ladies’ Entertainment. Strict adherence to club policy required.
Now, through the service windows lining the upper corridor, I catch glimpses of the coordination area—Scarlett and staff moving efficiently between Blake’s bachelor party and Natalie’s bachelorette party, maintaining the illusion that this place runs itself.
I'm only here for one reason: Jane.
Not for Blake. Not for old times' sake. Not because our families spent summers together in the Hamptons or because we've known each other since we were kids building sandcastles and making terrible decisions.
I'm here because Jane needs evidence. Because fifty thousand dollars means her sister finishes nursing school. Because Natalie deserves to know what she's marrying.
My task: make Blake's devotion to Natalie loud. Obnoxious. Get him talking about his perfect future wife. Make Scarlett—who's coordinating both parties—hear every word. Watch Blake choose the merger, the wife, the respectable future over her.
If we're lucky, Blake will stay coherent enough to incriminate himself.
If we're lucky, Scarlett will crack. Confront him. Give us something on tape.
My phone’s in my breast pocket, recording app already running. Whatever Blake says and does tonight, Jane's getting it.
Blake's already three drinks deep, judging by the flush in his cheeks and the volume of his laugh. He's surrounded by his groomsmen—prep school friends, finance bros, most of them the kind of guys who peaked at twenty-two and have been chasing that high ever since.
Right now, Blake's waxing poetic about his bride-to-be, and I'm capturing every nauseating word.
Through the service window, I catch a glimpse of Scarlett.
Now’s the time.
"To Blake and Natalie," I say, raising my glass, “Big day on Saturday."
Blake grins, swaying slightly. "To the future Mrs. Hartwell. Sweet, innocent Natalie. I'm a lucky bastard."
One of the groomsmen—Thompson, I think—leans forward. "She's gorgeous, man. How'd you lock that down?"
"Patience. Strategy." Blake takes a long pull from his whiskey.
"Natalie's the whole package. Beautiful face and body, the right family and business connections… and get this, she’s pure.
You know how rare that is these days? A woman who hasn't been passed around? And she’s all mine to unwrap Saturday night. "
"Virgin?" Thompson asks, grinning like he's twelve.
Blake gloats—a sound that makes my skin crawl. "Saving herself for marriage. Can you believe it? In this day and age?"
He taps his glass for emphasis, “She'll make a great mother someday. Wholesome. Traditional. Easy to manage." He sounds almost wistful.
"You know what marriage is, guys?" Blake says, warming to his own voice. “It’s shared assets. That’s it. The rest? Theater."
I keep my face blank, watching a man incriminate himself while calling it "business strategy."
One of the finance guys laughs. "Cynical much?"
"Realistic," Blake corrects. "Love is temporary. Contracts are forever. Or at least until the prenup kicks in."
One of the groomsmen elbows Blake. "So what's the play on the wedding night? Virgin bride, yeah? That's gotta be a novelty for you."
Blake grins, leaning back in his chair like a king on a throne. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy that. Teach her exactly who's in charge. Mold her right. By the time I'm done, she'll think I invented sex."
He makes a crude thrusting gesture that has the room howling. "Wedding night's gonna be memorable."
The groomsmen cheer. I glance toward the coordination window. Scarlett's still there, tablet forgotten in her hands, frozen as she listens to every word.
Good. Let her hear this. Let her realize exactly where she stands.
"She's lucky too," I manage, forcing the words out, hating every word.
"You bet your ass, she is." Blake's getting louder, more performative.
"Hartwell name, Hartwell money, Hartwell connections. She's set for life. And the merger?" He shakes his head. " She's perfect for my career. The merger wouldn't work without her. My dad loves her. Her dad loves me. It's perfect."
He drains his glass, slamming it on the table. "She's irreplaceable. The wife I need. The mother of my heirs. My virgin bride."
Through the window, Scarlett's gone rigid—the kind of locked-down stillness I've seen in rookies who just took a hit they didn't see coming. Her tablet's tilted at an angle that means she's not actually reading it. Just holding on.
As more drinks are poured, the guys get louder and the conversation starts devolving.
"Maybe keep it in your pants tonight," I say, when Blake starts eyeing the door like he's expecting entertainment. "Wedding's in two days."
Blake laughs, the sound harsh and grating. "That's what this is for, West. Last night of freedom. Not that freedom really ends if you're smart about it."
He winks at his pals, who chuckle like he's said something clever instead of something that makes me want to break his jaw.
"Natalie doesn't deserve—"
"Natalie gets exactly what she signed up for." Blake cuts me off, bourbon making him bold. "A name. A fortune. A life most women would kill for. What I do on my time?" He shrugs. "That's my business."
The casual cruelty of it makes me cringe.
Blake gets louder, "That's why we bust our asses, boys. So we can have it all. The respectable wife at home, the fun wherever we want it."
He pauses, and in that moment, his mask slips completely.
"Women come and go. Some are good for one thing—you know, release—and that's about all." His voice drops, casual as discussing the weather. "No one is irreplaceable."
And there it is. The killing blow.
Five minutes ago, he called Natalie irreplaceable.
Now he's telling his mistress—because that's what Scarlett is, what she's always been—that she doesn't matter. That any woman could do what she does for him.
I watch as Scarlett's face goes white.
Blake's still talking, oblivious. "That's the secret, boys. Give them what they want—" He mimes throwing money. "—they give you what you want. Everyone's happy."
One of the groomsmen laughs. "What about love?"
Blake snorts. "Love? That's for people who can't afford better."
My jaw tightens. Thankful that every cruel word is captured for Natalie.
Blake suddenly focuses on me, bourbon-bright eyes narrowing. "Look at you, Saint West Prescott. Always been too good for the rest of us, haven't you?"
I don't respond.
"Now you're playing bodyguard for some nobody who's using you for your last name." He laughs, the sound ugly. "I get that she’s pretty, West—they all are. And they’ll only get close, extract what they need, disappear. But sure, keep pretending you're special."
The groomsmen shift uncomfortably even in their drunken state.
I force myself to keep my expression blank.
Blake thinks Jane's using me. He thinks what we have is transactional. A job. An act.
Maybe it started that way.
But it's not anymore.
Around 10 pm the door opens, and three women in barely-there sequined outfits saunter in, all curves and practiced smiles. The entertainment has arrived.
"Gentlemen," the brunette purrs, "ready for some fun?"
Blake's eyes light up like Christmas morning. "Now we're talking."
The next twenty minutes are a masterclass in human degradation.
Blake immediately gets handsy with the brunette, rough and possessive in ways that make my skin crawl. His hands are everywhere—squeezing, groping, claiming like she's property he's just purchased.
"Damn, look at these," he says, hands on her breasts, squeezing roughly. "Perfect."
The woman smiles—professional, practiced—but her eyes say she's just doing a job—one where she can’t fight back.
Blake doesn't notice. Or he doesn't care.
He pulls her harder against him, grinding. "Feel that, baby? That's what you do to me."
The groomsmen laugh, some joining in with their own dancers.
Then Blake spanks her hard enough to leave marks, not once bothering to look at her face. The smile on her face never falters, not even once, but her shoulders betray her.
He fists a handful of her hair next and jerks her head back—not to meet her eyes, but to display her to the room.
“This,” Blake says flatly, like he’s pointing out a feature on a car. His hands keep moving, careless and entitled. “This is what I need. Willing. Available. No strings. No complications.”
The men whoop, some pulling out their own phones to record. The irony isn't lost on me—they're all documenting Blake's depravity from different angles.
This is the man who called Natalie 'irreplaceable.' Who talked about her like she was sacred. Virgin bride. Wife material. Mother of his children.
Now he's got his hands all over a woman whose name he doesn't know, laughing about 'testing the merchandise before the warranty expires.'
I check the service window. Scarlett's gone. Smart woman. She got the message. She's probably too devastated to confront him.
Blake just showed her exactly what she is to him: same category as these women. Temporary. Transactional. Replaceable.