The ladies came to the same conclusion as West and me.
Plan A—I honeypot Blake directly—is dead after West went full protective mode and basically radiated a "touch her and you die" warning at Blake last night.
Plan B—I make Scarlett jealous enough to publicly stake her claim on Blake—also flatlined because of last night.
Plan C—my fixer brain has been itching since Scarlett and Blake's blowup yesterday. There's a play in that mess. I just need to see it.
Time to observe.
Crisis Level: 9/10. Threat: Impending Financial Ruin & Heartbreak. Recommended Action: Locate the crack. Clock's ticking.
Four hours later.
The welcome reception for the first wave of wedding guests is in full swing—champagne flowing, unpronounceable cheeses disappearing fast, and bridesmaids chattering about the bachelorette party tonight.
But I'm not really listening.
My mind is stuck on Barbie's parting words from brunch.
"Natalie deserves better than Blake, Jane. And you deserve that fifty thousand dollars. So let's get our heads back in the game, yeah?"
Cue the shame-gratitude cocktail.
She could have said,"We're not paying you for orgasms, Jane. We're paying you for results."
But she didn't. She saw me trying. She gave me grace.
And I, Jane Elizabeth Cooper, am a complete sucker for kindness. Money, yes—that's part of it. But knowing she's placing her trust in me? Believing I can pull this off?
I’ll turn every stone on this island, flip the island itself if needed to deliver.
So I'm watching. Laser-focused.
Specifically, I'm watching Scarlett.
And she's everywhere.
Flawless in crisp white linen pants and a coral silk blouse, her tablet held like a shield. She stays in the background as guests mingle, but she's coordinating staff, fixing problems before anyone else notices them, keeping the reception running smoothly before the soon-to-be-married couple arrives.
Her smile is steady, but her eyes are strained. Her movements are too precise. Her shoulders are rigid. She's working like someone who can't afford to stop moving.
For a split second, I almost feel sorry for her.
Maybe it's my determination to catch every detail. Maybe I'm projecting my own situation with West. But it seems Scarlett isn't just working hard—she looks like she's holding herself together through sheer force of will. Stopping would mean feeling, and she clearly can't risk that.
I don’t like how easily I recognize that look.
Get a grip, Jane. Do not put yourself in her shoes. She's the wedding planner sleeping with the groom.
A server offers me champagne in a flute so delicate I take it with both hands, careful, unobtrusive. Background furniture. Exactly where I need to be.
Then Blake enters the reception with Natalie, his hand on the small of her back. He's looking resplendent, oozing charm and attentiveness—the perfect groom. Natalie glows, greeting guests, pointing excitedly at floral arrangements, laughing at something he whispers in her ear.
And Scarlett is watching.
Her knuckles are white around the tablet. Her expression is carefully neutral, but her eyes track every touch, every whispered word, every moment of casual intimacy between Blake and his beautiful fiancée.
Blake tucks a stray strand of hair behind Natalie's ear, his touch lingering. It's a masterclass in performative affection.
