Ryker: My money’s still on Axel. Fake feelings hit harder than real ones, apparently.
Jace: [Renames the group chat to The Real Housewives of Chicago: Axel’s Meltdown Edition.]
Blake: [Renames the group chat to Live from the Tire Slasher vs. Flat-Tire Victim Fight.]
Me: I hate all of you.
Blake: Love you too, bro. Now smile pretty for the cameras. Mathew’s in shanking range.
38
PSA: IF YOUR EX HEARD YOU GETTING ROMANTIC WITH YOUR FAKE FIANCÉE, MAKE SURE HE DOESN’T HAVE DIRT TO SHARE … #REVENGESERVED
DAKOTA
Rebecca had transformed the space into something that belonged in a magazine spread.Okay, I’ll give her this one.The woman knew how to sell a fantasy. The table had been extended to accommodate our ridiculous guest list: Axel and me (the happy couple), Blake, Jace, Ryker, Faith, Tessa, Scarlett, Frank and Carl from Axel’s business deal, three influencers, two reps for my brand deal, and of course, Mathew. Because nothing would make us less nervous than having a massive audience for this performance.
The crisp white tablecloth cascaded to the floor like fresh snow, and the centerpiece—a cascading arrangement of white peonies and peach roses—filled the air with their sickeningly sweet perfume. Every detail screamed money and romance. The peach napkins were folded into perfect little swans. The bone china gleamed under the dining room light’s warm glow, each plate positioned with military precision.
The lighting had been dimmed to that golden-hour magic that made everyone look like they’d stepped out of a skin-carecommercial. Even the waiter—yes, Rebecca had hired actual staff—stood at attention in his pristine tuxedo, hands clasped behind his back like he was guarding the Crown Jewels instead of waiting to serve overpriced wine to a group of preplanned witnesses.
I ran my fingers along the stem of my wineglass, the crystal cool against my suddenly clammy palms. Everything was beautiful. Everything was perfect.
Everything is fake, I reminded myself, trying to push what happened in the living room out of my mind. Because honestly, how could I think about anything with the memory of Axel’s fingers inside?—
“So, why don’t you tell us about how you two met?” Frank suggested, leaning back with his wine like he was settling in for story time.
I smiled, hoping it looked natural. Hoping no one else noticed the major death glares Mathew was shooting at Axel. Hoping that Axel and I hadn’t ruined everything by making Mathew even more upset than he’d already been before he got here. Honestly, how could I have been so reckless?
“I actually met him when I was visiting a friend.”
“But it wasn’t until years later that we reconnected,” Axel said smoothly, taking my hand.
The second his fingers intertwined with mine, two things happened: First, a jolt of heat shot through my skin, engulfing my chest in the best possible, albeit unexpected, way. Second, Mathew’s eyes snapped to our joined hands and narrowed.
Crap. This couldn’t be easy on Mathew, witnessing the love of his life with another man. Nor could it have been easy seeing whatever part of our romantic encounter he’d seen between me and Axel. Guilt clawed at me, and I wished I could pull him aside and apologize right now.
“Jace was in the hospital,” Axel continued, his thumb tracing a small circle on my hand, as if to say,Breathe. We’ve got this.
“I think I read about that. You were attacked, right?” Carl asked, leaning forward with morbid curiosity.
“I was.” Jace cleared his throat while even more guilt clawed through my chest. Jace didn’t like talking about that day he’d been airlifted to the hospital. He’d almost died, for God’s sake.
“Anyway,” I continued, “we reconnected, and what can we say? Sometimes, fate takes the wheel.”
Axel brought our joined hands up to brush a kiss across my knuckles.
Poor Mathew. I couldn’t even shoot him an apology stare without risking everything.
“And when did you get engaged?” Frank pressed.
Axel’s voice dropped to that soft tone that made my insides go liquid. “I came home one night after the day from hell. Dakota was in our kitchen, singing while she baked cookies. Off-key, I might add.”
“Hey!” I protested, but I was fighting a smile. Because he was talking about a real memory, and somehow, that made this fake moment feel … very muchnotfake.
“She was wearing this ridiculous apron with flour in her hair.” His eyes found mine, and suddenly, the room felt smaller. More intimate. “I’d had the worst day, was ready to burn everything down, and then I walked into that chaos, and … everything else just disappeared.”
The sincerity in his voice was doing dangerous things to my chest cavity.
