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The ensemble cost me an ungodly amount of money. I don’t fucking care.
After Jennifer’s departure, Harlow and Masey magically appeared, makeup kit, nail polish, and styling wand in tow.
While my sister and her bestie began the beauty works, I looked over the social media images of Corinne lunching with Riley. Slick bastard. If I have anything to say, he won’t be touching her again. At best, he’s indecisive and insensitive. At worst, he’s in league with Parker and up to no good. Either way, he’s my enemy.
Since I need to understand his motives, I called Owen, the PI. It took me less than two minutes to shift his investigative focus from Corinne to Riley. “I want to know everything—what he had for breakfast, the last time he got laid, the tightness of his sphincter. Don’t leave anything out.”
Since Owen is nosy, ruthless, and cash-motivated, he jumped on my demand. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
So while he gathers information, Corinne and I will do some much-needed damage control.
In the passenger’s seat beside me, she looks drop-dead gorgeous. Soft curls brush her shoulders while her pouty red lips shred my self-control. No doubt, we’re going to get a lot of attention tonight.
We need it.
“What about the reporters?” I try to sound calm.
“Are they really necessary? Are we going too far? Pushing back too hard?”
“If we don’t, your brother controls public perception.”
“Does that matter? Don’t I really just need to convince him that our engagement is real?”
She’s not wrong, but she’s also not a fighter. I have to tamp down my impatience and my viciousness to explain.
I squeeze her hand. “Princess, Parker knows me. He knows the only way I won’t fight back is if you don’t mean anything to me.” Actually, if I don’t shove it down his throat with my fist until he gags on my knuckles, he’ll know I’m not committed to her. “So, we have to put on a spectacle. The reporters have their friends on standby to help our appearance trend on social media. If we don’t, your brother will dig in his heels even more. And you’ll never get your money.”
Corinne sighs. “I know you’re right. I wish I could just call him and make him see reason, but he seems beyond that.”
He is. And so am I.
This is war. I’m not taking any prisoners, only leaving casualties.
“Fighting this battle is why you came to me to start with,” I remind her.
But in the back of my head, I know Corinne and Parker are fast approaching the point of no return—and that I’m driving the car at breakneck speed, gunning for a head-on collision.
I’m just not sure who will be standing when everything is said and done.
“I did,” she concedes. “I just need to wrap my head around all this.”
She’s silent the last few minutes of our drive. I sense her nerves jangling. She knows the stakes. She understands the gravity. I wish I could take that from her, rather than putting her on display and adding fuel to the fire.
Parker’s fucking bomb made that impossible.
Finally, we arrive at one of the island’s swanky hotels. Their bar is the hopping nightlife spot, where locals and tourists rub elbows—and other body parts. Since it’s a Monday night, Noah and Harlow announced their appearance on social media to help us swell the crowd with partiers seeking a glimpse of the home-grown hero. They tagged Corinne and me, too. I’m ready for whoever shows up.
As I help her from the car and the valet drives my Audi away, my phone dings. “Harlow says they’re here.”
“Good.” Corinne looks incredibly nervous.
I scan the crowd spilling out from the bar and onto a hazily lit lanai. Samantha James’s “Breathe You In” is thumping. The drinks are flowing. The club-goers are milling around, seeing and being seen. The environment is ripe.
“Relax. Let’s give these people a show.” I take her hand.
Corinne wraps her fingers around mine and nods. “I’m going to need a drink.”
“I planned on it.”
At the door, there’s a line of people waiting to get in that wraps halfway around the building. It surpasses the usual weekend crowd. Good. Word will travel fast with multiple corroborating sources.
As I nod at the bouncer and bypass the line, thanks to Noah, I usher Corinne inside and scan the darkened room with flashing multicolored lights and swaying bodies, searching for familiar faces, especially Parker’s.
“Come on, you motherfucker. Let’s tango,” I mutter under my breath.
The crowd parts for us like the Red Sea. Women stare. Men eye-fuck Corinne. I keep a tight grip on her and lead her to the VIP table in the back corner, where Harlow and Noah are already holding court. As my brother-in-law signs autographs, my sister rises to hug us both. I order a round for the table from a passing server and sit, anchoring Corinne to my side with an arm around her waist.
