She glances our way, her triumph fading slightly when she sees us preparing to leave.
For a moment, our eyes meet across the room. Something unspoken passes between us—a question, perhaps, or a challenge.
Then Valentina’s hand finds my arm, and the moment breaks.
“Darling,” Sterling says to Bix, smoothly inserting himself into her circle of admirers. “Quite the performance. You’ve been holding out on us.” His tone is jovial, but I catch the calculation behind it.
“I didn’t think anyone would be interested,” Bix replies, her eyes flicking to me briefly.
“On the contrary.” Sterling gestures to the still-applauding crowd. “But it’s getting late, and we have that yacht party tomorrow. Milo and I were just heading back to the hotel.”
I watch as understanding dawns on Bix’s face—she’s being collected, managed, returned to her assigned role.
“I’ll just say goodbye to Paul,” she says, turning to the young DJ.
I tense, observing their farewell, my body rigid as I watch for their kiss—and what kind of kiss it is.
But Paul just gives her the typical French kiss—one on eachcheek—and they wave goodbye. No hugs. No fond farewells. Just that.
I feel myself relax marginally.
“Slayer is joining me for a nightcap at my villa,” Valentina announces, her arm sliding through mine possessively. “We have so much catching up to do.”
Bix’s expression crumbles for just a moment before she masters it. “Enjoy your evening,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.
“Shall we?” Valentina urges, tugging me toward the exit.
As we leave, I glance back one last time. Sterling has his arm around Bix’s shoulders, guiding her toward their waiting car, already on his phone making another deal. Milo follows, typing furiously on his own device.
Bix looks back just once. Then the doors close behind us, and Valentina leads me into the warm Mediterranean night, toward her villa and whatever further complications await there.
CHAPTER 30
BIX
Isit in the back of the limo, still buzzing from my performance. The leather seats feel cool against my heated skin.
But the triumph of the night is already fading—replaced by a gnawing awareness of Slayer’s absence. Of where he must be right now.
With Valentina.
I had expected some sort of reprimand from Sterling for lying about feeling sick, but he hasn’t mentioned finding me at the club.
Or at least not yet.
Right now he’s too absorbed in his phone conversation, exchanging meaningful glances with Milo that make me feel like a child who doesn’t understand the adults’ secret language.
The night air carries the scent of rosemary as our limo purrs through Saint-Tropez’s winding streets.
I touch my throat, still warm from singing, from being real, if only for a moment. From having an entire room of sophisticated people—people who’ve seen and heard everything—rise to their feet for me.
When we arrive at the hotel, the bellman helps me out. Sterlingfinally puts away his phone as we face each other in the marble lobby.
“Good night, Bix,” he says, voice smooth as aged cognac. “Don’t forget—twelve o’clock tomorrow. We’ll walk to the yacht together for the party.”
“Walk?” I try for lightness, hoping to end this strange evening on a better note. “Shouldn’t we take a helicopter?”
“Very funny.” Sterling’s smile appears. “That’s what I like about you. Your sense of humor.”
