Chapter 1
Operation Honeypot
January 20 | Boston
Jane
“So you’re saying the wedding planner is sleeping with the groom?”
Right on cue, the washing machine downstairs launches into its spin cycle, shaking the floor like it’s personally offended.
“And you need me to do what?” I ask slowly.
Cashmere Blonde in the center—immaculate posture, bone structure that makes you wonder if she's ever eaten carbs—doesn't even flinch. "Seduce. Entrap. Honeypot. Whatever the technical term is for getting a man to cheat so we can have proof."
"We prefer 'expose,'" Hermès Brunette corrects, her gaze scanning my office like she's already writing up health code violations.
"We're saying we have concerns." Cartier Red shoots back, smile sharp enough to cut glass.
Ivory Blonde shifts in her seat, death grip on her purse like it might try to escape.
I stare at the four women crowding my second-floor office—which, if we’re being honest, is generous terminology for a room that permanently smells like Tide, fabric softener, and financial desperation.
They’ve arranged themselves in the chairs Ipulled from a curb last spring and still manage to look like they stepped out of a perfume commercial where everyone is flawless and no one has pores. Their "casual" clothes probably cost more than my car.
Well, the car I no longer own because I sold it a week ago to make Grace's tuition payment.
“Right. Concerns.” I lean back in my desk chair, which squeaks like a dying mouse. Dramatically louder than usual, probably from the perfume overload.
Cashmere Blonde—Barbie Wintz, apparently—holds up a hand with the kind of authority that makes you wonder if she's ever had to repeat herself in her entire life.
"Let me provide context. Our closest friend, Natalie Ashford, is marrying Blake Hartwell in eleven days. The wedding celebration starts on the January twenty-fourth and the ceremony is on January thirty-first. At the Cap Juluca resort in Anguilla."
I nod like I know where Anguilla is. I'm seventy percent sure it's in the Caribbean. The other thirty percent thinks it might be near Spain.
"Blake is a senior partner at Hartwell & Cross," Cashmere Blonde continues. "His family has money going back to the Mayflower. Natalie's family owns half of Connecticut. This wedding is a merger as much as a marriage."
"Okay," I say carefully. "And you think he's cheating?"
"We know he is!" Cartier Red says. “Our best friend is marrying that cheating piece of—" She glances at Cashmere Blonde. "—trash. Blake Hartwell. We've seen him with her. Multiple times."
"Her?" I pull out a notepad, flipping to a clean page. My pen is from a dentist's office. It has a cartoon molar on it. "Who's her?"
"Scarlett Thorne." Hermes Brunette’s voice does not hide her impatience. "Thewedding planner."
Hot fudge.
"Cliché, right?" Barbie’s smile is sharp enough to cut glass.
Ivory Blond speaks up suddenly. "We tried telling Natalie. She won't listen. Laughed and said we're catty and jealous because we're all single.”
The way Katelyn sayssinglemakes it sound like a communicable disease.
"She won't listen to us," Cartier Red, Merritt, says. "She's in love. Or she's in denial. Either way, she's going to marry a man who's actively sleeping with someone else, and we can't let that happen."
I set my cartoon-molar pen down. "So you want proof."
"Irrefutable proof," Hermes Brunette, Sloane, clarifies. "Photos. Video. A recording. Something she can't explain away."
