Chapter 15
The Bride’s Gambit
Jane
His mouth is on my collarbone, and I've forgotten every language I've ever spoken.
Which is only one. But still.
West's hand is splayed across my stomach, thumb drawing lazy circles that keep dipping lower, and his lips trace a path from my shoulder to the hollow of my throat.
I tilt my head up to look at him. He's got that satisfied expression—smug doesn't quite cover it. This is territorial. Possessive.
And annoyingly attractive.
"Don't look at me like that," I say.
"Like what?"
"Like you're proud of yourself."
"I am proud of myself."
"Cocky."
"Also accurate." He shifts beneath me, rolling so I'm suddenly on my back and he's leaning over me, forearms bracketing my head. "You made sounds I'm going to be replaying for the rest of my life."
"West—"
"Specifically, that thing you did when I—"
I slap my hand over his mouth. "We are not cataloging."
He grins against my palm. Licks it.
I yelp. He laughs.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He kisses the corner of my mouth. Then my jaw. Then that spot behind my ear that makes me shiver. "You really, really like me."
"I'm reconsidering."
"Liar."
He's right. Which is infuriating.
"And… you taste like sunshine," he murmurs against my skin, and it's so ridiculous and so sincere that I bark a laugh.
"That's not a real flavor."
"It is now." His teeth graze my earlobe and my entire spine liquefies. "Sunshine and salt and that coconut lotion you put on after your shower."
"It was free. From the resort basket."
"I know. I watched you apply it. Twice."
"Creep."
"Admirer." His hand slides up to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple with maddening patience. "There's a distinction."
The afternoon light pours through the casita windows in gold slats, painting stripes across our tangled sheets, our tangled legs, the discarded sundress on the floor that didn't survive the first ten seconds after we step back into the casita.
Round two ended maybe ten minutes ago. West doesn't seem interested in letting me recover.
His mouth finds my nipple and I arch into it, fingers threading through his hair. "West—"
"Mm." Not a question. An acknowledgment. Like he's heard me and decided to overrule whatever I was about to say.
His tongue circles, slow and deliberate, and my thighs press together under the sheet.
"You can't just—" I start.
He switches to the other breast. My protest dissolves into a sound I'll deny making later.
"That's unfair," I manage.
"What is?"
"You. This. The way you—" His hand slides between my thighs and my thought process exits stage left. "I was trying to form a sentence."
"Take your time."
"Impossible when your hand is—oh."
He grins against my skin. I can feel it. The curve of his mouth pressed to the swell of my breast while his fingers find exactly the spot that makes my hips roll into him.
"Round three?" he asks, like he's offering me a refill on coffee.
"I can't feel my legs from round two."
"I'll do all the work."
I make a noise that's half-protest, half-please-don't-stop.
"You're insatiable," I murmur.
"You're distracting." His voice is low, amused. "Lying here. Looking like that."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Exactly." His thumb presses into the small of my back, and I arch into it without thinking.
My phone rings.
"Ignore it," West says against my neck.
"It could be important."
"It's not."
It buzzes again. Insistent.
I reach over, fumbling for it. I sit up slightly, pulling the sheet with me. Answer. "Hello?
"Jane?"
The voice is soft and familiar.
Natalie Ashford.
I lock eyes with West. Mouth her name.
I tap the button. "Natalie. Hi. Are you—how are you?"
Stupid question. Her wedding is tomorrow and she just found out her fiancé is a serial cheater who thinks she's a business acquisition.
"I'm…" A pause. "I don't know, actually. But that's not why I'm calling."
West's expression sharpens. Focused.
"Okay," I say carefully.
"The bridesmaids showed me everything. The timeline. The recordings. The footage from the bachelor party." Her voice doesn't waver. It's almost eerie how steady she sounds. "Thank you."
"You don't have to—"
"I do. You could have walked away. You didn't have to care whether I married him or not. But you built a case like you were trying to protect someone you actually knew."
My chest tightens. "Natalie—"
"Especially the contingency notes. The 'if he tries to manipulate her' section. The part where you wrote out responses I could use if he tried to gaslight me." She pauses. "That wasn't in the job description, was it?"
West's hand finds mine under the sheet. Squeezes once.
"No," I admit. "That was just… I didn't want you to be alone in it."
"I know. That's why I'm calling."
I wait.
"I need to tell you something," Natalie says. "And I need you to understand it before I ask you what I'm going to ask you."
West leans closer. His shoulder presses against mine.
"I already knew."
"You—what?"
"Not about Scarlett specifically. Not the details. But I knew Blake wasn't… faithful. Or planning to be."
I blink. Process. "You knew he was cheating?"
“Yes. Do you have time? I have something to discuss with you.”
“Of course. But erm… Natalie, West is here with me. Give me a second to find a place more pri—”
“Actually... I need both of you. So, go ahead and put me on the speaker."
West shifts, sitting up against the headboard and pulling me with him so I’m tucked against his side, his arm a heavy barricade across my shoulders. The sheet pools around our waists. The room feels suddenly very still.
He doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for the phone before I can second-guess it and taps speaker, his other hand still steady at my waist—grounding, not distracting now.
“Go ahead,” he says, voice calm, captain-level composed. It’s a noticeable shift from the man who was just trying to convince me round three was a civic duty.
There’s a breath on the other end of the line.
“I knew,” Natalie repeats. “Not specifics. Not names. But I knew Blake wasn’t built for… loyalty.”
This time, her words land, heavier than if she’d said “cheating”.
"I knew he was playful." Her tone is careful. Practiced. Like she's said this before. "That's the word my mother used when she explained how marriages work in families like—never mind.”
“I just know it's not personal. What matters is discretion."
West's jaw tightens beside me.
"Mom reminded me of that the week Blake proposed," Natalie continues. "Over tea. At the Plaza. Like she was explaining the difference between salad forks and dessert forks."
My stomach turns. "Natalie—"
"I was raised to believe marriage wasn't about fidelity. It was about alliance. About family names and board positions and who sits where at the Met Gala." Her voice is still calm. Too calm.
"Blake's indiscretions were acceptable as long as they stayed private. As long as he was discreet. As long as I could stand beside him at charity dinners and smile."
I thought I could manage it. Discretion mattered more. It wouldn't touch me.
That's all she gives me of a lifetime of conditioning. My chest aches.
"I’m so sorry," I say, because what else is there? Congratulations on dodging a bullet that I had to prove was loaded?
"No." Natalie’s laugh is short and sharp. "Don’t apologize. I’m grateful. I’m..." She pauses.
"I know what you're thinking," Natalie says softly.
"That I should have called it off the moment I knew.
That I should have demanded better. But you have to understand—this is what I was taught.
This was the deal. I get security, status, a name that opens doors.
He gets a wife from the right family who knows how to play the part. "
I feel West’s hand settle on the small of my back under the sheet—warm, grounding.
"I thought I could manage it, you know? I thought if I just performed well enough, if I was pure enough, if I treated it like an alliance instead of a romance, I could control the narrative. I was wrong."
"He got sloppy."
West and I exchange a look.
"Sloppy how?" I ask.
"Scarlett. The wedding planner." Natalie's voice hardens just slightly. "Sleeping with her was one thing. Parading it in front of the staff, the vendors, people who talk—that's different. And the bachelor party footage? The way he talked about me? About women in general?"
She takes a breath.
"If that got out—and it will, Jane, these things always do—it doesn't just embarrass me. It makes me look stupid. Weak. Like I didn't know, or worse, like I knew and didn't care. That's not discretion. That's humiliation."
West’s arm tightens around me. I feel his jaw clench against my temple.
"I can't pretend I'm managing something everyone else sees. My friends saw it. You documented it. It's not discreet anymore. It's humiliation dressed as tradition, and I'm done wearing it."
West's fingers press into my lower back. A reflexive gesture. Like he wants to shield something he can't reach.
"The bridesmaids—" I start.
"Were braver than I was." Her voice cracks for the first time.
"When they showed me what you put together, and I realized I wasn't protecting my dignity. I was enabling the destruction of it."
I press my free hand flat against my sternum where something heavy and hot has settled.
"My parents saw the footage and photos," Natalie says. "They're livid. Not because Blake cheated—they expected that. But because he was careless. Because he made our family look foolish."
"So they support you canceling?" I ask.
"They support me controlling the narrative."
The way she says it sends a chill through me.
"You ARE calling the wedding off, right?" I say.
"No."
I sit up straighter. "What?"
"I want to expose him. Publicly. At the altar."
The words sit in the air between us.
West's hand goes very still.
"At the altar," I repeat.