Page 42 of The Temporary Bride

BECKETT: It’s a rite of passage. You can’t deny tradition.

ME: Tradition?

ME: In case you forgot, our family’s traditions involve boardroom meetings, not wild parties.

BECKETT: Oh my god, is that what this is about? The company image?

BECKETT: Okay, we promise we won’t sully the good Thorne name with our wild debauchery. Now get ready.

I roll my eyes, wondering if I can convince him to let this one slide. Tradition or not, a night out with my brothers isn’t exactly my idea of relaxation.

I guess relaxation isn’t really the point, though.

ME: Fine.

Beckett responds to that text with a series of emojis, and I darken my phone screen, tucking it back into my pocket.

An hour later, a sleek black Mercedes pulls into my circular driveway and flashes its lights. Behind the wheel is Beckett’s usual driver.

“Where are we headed?” I ask as I climb into the plush back seat.

Beckett’s driver doesn’t even look back at me, but I can see the glimmer of amusement in his eyes through the rearview mirror. “Sorry, Mr. Thorne. Your brother was very insistent that I keep our destination a secret.”

Of course he was.

As the car glides through the city, slowly taking on the glint of streetlights as night falls on LA, I try several more times to figure out where we’re going. Each time, I’m met with a careful, stoic silence from Beckett’s man. At one point, he even clicks his tongue at me, like he’s scolding me. Eventually, I resign myself to the fact that Beckett is determined to keep this outing shrouded in secrecy.

The car pulls up to a luxurious building, its sleek facade illuminated by discreet, sophisticated lighting. The driver opens the door for me, and I step out into the cool night air. The entrance is unassuming, but there’s an undeniable air of exclusivity.

As I make my way inside, the atmosphere changes. Low, ambient lighting casts a warm glow over the tastefully decorated interior. The subtle murmur of conversation and clinking glasses fills the space, just audible below the bass thumping through the speakers. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, the upscale allure of the place becomes apparent.

“Tristan!”

Beckett’s voice catches my attention over the noise. He’s across the room near the bar, waving me over.

I approach him. He grins widely. “We’ve got a private room in the back,” he says.

I nod in acknowledgment, following Beckett through the crowd. The pulsating beat of the music reverberates through the soles of my shoes as we navigate the room.

He leads me to a discreet entrance near the back, and as we step inside, the transition is immediate. The noise outside diminishes, replaced by a muffled, rhythmic thud. The private room unfolds before us, a haven within the lively establishment.

As I enter the private room, the subdued lighting casts a soft glow on the rest of my brothers, who occupy the plush leather seats around the circular table. In front of them, on an illuminated stage, three scantily-clad women dance, their hips swaying rhythmically as they wind their way around a metal pole.

Beckett, ever the showman, takes a dramatic bow, indicating the room as if it were a royal chamber.

“Welcome to the VIP zone,” he announces, his grin widening. “Have a seat. The night is young, and the fun is just beginning.”

Gabriel drums his fingers on the table, a weary scowl on his face. “Can we get this over with? Some of us have early mornings.”

Beckett chuckles. “Gabe, my man, live a little. It’s not every day your brother gets married.”

Gabriel mutters something under his breath about responsibilities and being a single dad.

“Speak up, Gabe.” Beckett lightly punches his shoulder, a playful gleam in his eye. “Share with the class.”

“I said, I don’t do this shit anymore,” Gabriel grumbles. “I’ve got a kid at home.”

“And that’s a damn travesty,” Beckett retorts, then quickly amends, “The first part. Not the kid part. Peyton is the best.”