The Olympic rejection doesn't sting anymore. It's been replaced by something deeper. Something that sits heavier in my chest. The growing awareness that some competitions are lost before you even know you're playing them.
But not this one. Not yet.
Eight days to the wedding.
Eight days until I find out if I still have a spine, or if I’ve just been letting myself play the role everyone expects of me.
One way or another, there's going to be a collision at that wedding.
Either I destroy Blake by exposing him, or I destroy myself by standing there and doing nothing.
Chapter 3
The Human Shield
January 24 | Day 1 Anguilla | T–7 to Wedding
Jane
The asshole is blocking me again.
I’m standing behind a marble column roughly the size of a Boston apartment, watching my personal human shield intercept my fourth attempt to get within conversational distance of Blake Hartwell.
West Prescott.
The one the bridesmaids warned me about.
I spent my flight panic-researching every groomsman like my life depended on it—which is how I learned he’s a famous hockey player, a billionaire heir, and somehow deeply committed to making my job harder.
This time he's using the "accidental phone call" maneuver—materializing beside Blake with his phone pressed to his ear, speaking just loud enough to draw Blake into his conversation and away from the pool bar where I'd been approaching.
My target vanishes toward the beach volleyball setup, and I'm left clutching a mojito that costs more than my daily meal, wondering if hockey players have some kind of defensive radar that alerts them to incoming threats.
Frankly, I like to think I’m the hero in incognito mode here, which is awkward, because at the moment I haveaccomplished absolutely nothing.
I take a deep breath and attempt to appreciate the view instead of my rapidly deteriorating confidence.
Cap Juluca sprawls across Maundays Bay like someone took the Parthenon, dipped it in white paint, and asked,How expensive is too expensive?Greco-Moorish domes gleam against water so blue it looks fake. Palm trees pose like they’re auditioning for a travel magazine. Everything is pristine. Untouched. Judging me.
I smooth down my two-hundred-dollar linen sundress that I'm terrified of spilling anything on and check my phone.
Barbie: Status report?
ME:Your hockey player has appointed himself head of Blake security. Zero progress.
Barbie: Try harder. You're not there to sightsee.
Right. Try harder. With what, exactly? My extensive experience flirting with billionaires? My natural ability to blend in with people who vacation in places I can't pronounce?
Blake and West have moved to the volleyball courts now, completely out of range. I abandon the pool area and head toward the main pavilion, hoping to regroup. Maybe get a map of this resort at the concierge, figure out shortcuts, where Blake will be for dinner—form an actual plan instead of lurking behind columns like a discount spy.
I straighten my spine the way I practiced in my hotel mirror this morning, remind myself to drop my voice half an octave to sound more sophisticated, and start walking.
I'm almost to the concierge when I spot her—a small, elderly woman struggling near the desk. Her enormous sun hat has slid sideways, and she's juggling a designer handbag roughly the size of carry-on luggage while reaching for something on the counter she can't quite manage.
The bag slips. Not dramatically—just enough to make her wobble.
I move without thinking.
