"Yes," I hear myself say. "I'm keeping her."
The lie tastes different this time. Heavier. Because three days ago it would've been strategy, and now it's just… wanting.
Jane's hand goes tense in mine. She keeps her eyes lowered, won't look at me. Won't look at anyone. Like she can't bear to see their faces while I lie to them.
“Good. And you know what… it’d be even better if you two get pregnant soon.”
I hear Jane gasp next to me.
“Aunt Milly. We just met. Just got together!” I quickly remind her.
“Doesn’t matter!” Aunt Milly retorts. “Boy, you were practically a ghost before Jane. Haunting your own life. Now?” She gestures at me with her mango slice. “Look at you. Practically glowing. Positively… human. It’s unnerving, and preferable.”
Jane excuses herself to refill her coffee, her cheeks pink. The moment she’s out of earshot, the family huddle begins.
“She’s real, West, despite all the tall tales she’d spun about you,” Mom says softly, her eyes following Jane as she wrestles with the Nespresso machine again. “Genuine. Not like…”
“Caroline,” My father finishes, his voice low. “No comparison. That woman was all polish and no substance. A beautifully wrapped empty box. Jane?”
He nods towards her. “She’s… solid. Interesting. She sees you.”
“And she doesn’t take your brooding crap,” Aunt Milly adds approvingly.
Their words sink in, warming me from the inside. They see it too. What she is. Not the persona, not the shield, but the fierce, funny, gloriously messy core of her. And they approve. More than approve.
Jane returns, carefully balancing two coffees. She sets one down in front of me. “Your poison, Captain Brood.”
My face hurts from smiling. I can’t remember the last time that happened.
Chapter 10
The Hit and the Fall
January 28 | Day 5 Anguilla PM | T–3
Jane
“All hands on deck!”
When I get back from brunch with the Prescotts, the bridesmaids are already in full scramble mode. It’s the perfectsign-me-upcover to hover near a stressed-out Scarlett.
I just need her—preferably with Blake—to slip up.
Truth be told, I also don’t mind hanging out with the bridesmaids. They’re fun, harmless, and genuinely sweet in that glossy, destination-wedding kind of way.
But they’re also my employers, which means they supervise generously and move sparingly—so helping out turns into a shocking amount of cardio.
I’m cutting through the main pavilion, arms laden with more pink tulle for the blush-and-champagne beach extravaganza, when I spot West.
Well, Westand Scarlett.
He’s not lounging by the pool or charming fans. He’s deep in conversation with Scarlett near the open-air wedding planning office.
His posture is relaxed but attentive, head tilted as she gestures sharply at a tablet. She looks stressed, her usual icy composure fraying at the edges.
West’s brow is furrowed in that intense, problem-solving way that usually makes my insides do a complicated little flip-flop. Now, it just makes my stomach clench unpleasantly.
I see West says something back to Scarlett and her shoulders drop a fraction. He points at the tablet, suggesting something. She nods, tight but agreeing.
