"Natalie gets exactly what she signed up for." Blake cuts me off, bourbon making him bold. "A name. A fortune. A life most women would kill for. What I do on my time?" He shrugs. "That's my business."
The casual cruelty of it makes me cringe.
Blake gets louder, "That's why we bust our asses, boys. So we can have it all. The respectable wife at home, the fun wherever we want it."
He pauses, and in that moment, his mask slips completely.
"Women come and go. Some are good for one thing—you know, release—and that's about all." His voice drops, casual as discussing the weather. "No one is irreplaceable."
And there it is. The killing blow.
Five minutes ago, he called Natalie irreplaceable.
Now he's telling his mistress—because that's what Scarlett is, what she's always been—that she doesn't matter. That any woman could do what she does for him.
I watch as Scarlett's face goes white.
Blake's still talking, oblivious. "That's the secret, boys. Give them what they want—" He mimes throwing money. "—they give you what you want. Everyone's happy."
One of the groomsmen laughs. "What about love?"
Blake snorts. "Love? That's for people who can't afford better."
My jaw tightens. Thankful that every cruel word is captured for Natalie.
Blake suddenly focuses on me, bourbon-bright eyes narrowing. "Look at you, Saint West Prescott. Always been toogood for the rest of us, haven't you?"
I don't respond.
"Now you're playing bodyguard for some nobody who's using you for your last name." He laughs, the sound ugly. "I get that she’s pretty, West—they all are. And they’ll only get close, extract what they need, disappear. But sure, keep pretending you're special."
The groomsmen shift uncomfortably even in their drunken state.
I force myself to keep my expression blank.
Blake thinks Jane's using me. He thinks what we have is transactional. A job. An act.
Maybe it started that way.
But it's not anymore.
Around 10 pm the door opens, and three women in barely-there sequined outfits saunter in, all curves and practiced smiles. The entertainment has arrived.
"Gentlemen," the brunette purrs, "ready for some fun?"
Blake's eyes light up like Christmas morning. "Now we're talking."
The next twenty minutes are a masterclass in human degradation.
Blake immediately gets handsy with the brunette, rough and possessive in ways that make my skin crawl. His hands are everywhere—squeezing, groping, claiming like she's property he's just purchased.
"Damn, look at these," he says, hands on her breasts, squeezing roughly. "Perfect."
The woman smiles—professional, practiced—but her eyes say she's just doing a job—one where she can’t fight back.
Blake doesn't notice. Or he doesn't care.
He pulls her harder against him, grinding. "Feel that, baby? That's what you do to me."
