The name hits me like a snapped string.
Rhea?
No. It can’t be.
But then I see her.
Stepping into the room, framed by warm lamplight andthe hum of early evening laughter, her hair gathered loosely, eyes scanning the crowd. And then her gaze— landing on us.
Landing on me.
The room tilts on its axis.
What the fuck?
Rhea Sinclair is Carter’s sister?Carter fucking Ellison’s sister?
I feel my limbs go cold.
She’s even more beautiful than I remember—radiant in a simple dress that does nothing to disguise her elegance. Her mouth parts when our eyes meet, and in that one look, everything crashes back into me.
The night at the gala. Her glow.
Unzipping her dress. Watching it fall to the floor. Exploring every inch of her.
Exchanging French phrases.
The note I kept in my wallet for over a year.
And now, here she is. Walking toward us. The woman I’ve tried so hard to forget.
Mywhat if.
And Carter’s little sister.
Shit.
FIFTEEN
RHEA
“Rhea!”
I hear Carter’s voice rise over the crowd and turn toward it instantly—grateful to have a purpose in this sea of unfamiliar faces and the scent of money and superiority.
I spot my brother standing beneath a wrought-iron chandelier beside the bar. But it’s not Carter that makes my stomach drop.
It’s who’s standing next to him.
Spencer.
Oh. Shit.
Spencer and his little tulip are here forthe wedding?
What the hell?What the hell is the connection?
He looks… relaxed. At ease. Like he’s been coming to family weddings his whole life and knows exactly how to play the part. Confident without effort. Charming without trying. His hand rests lightly on the blonde’s back—possessive but polished, like it belongs there.
