“Sorry.” Not for the shock but for her situation. The word feels inadequate.
I saw her armor crack. Saw the raw, desperate love beneath it. Saw the weight she carries alone.
“Just got back. Golf was… productive.”
She forces a smile, already rebuilding the walls. “Scarlett blow a gasket?”
“She’s smoldering nicely. Blake looked like he’d rather be audited.”
I push off the doorframe, stepping closer. “You okay?”
I watch her move around the room, gathering clothes, avoiding my gaze. The practiced ease of her deflection is almost as telling as the phone call.
“Jane.”
“Me? Yeah. Peachy.” She waves a dismissive hand, but her eyes are still a little red-rimmed. “Just… sister stuff. Grace is stressing about finals. You know how it is.”
I do now.
Heard the sheer, grinding weight of responsibility.
A love so fierce it made her fly to a billionaire’s playground and try to seduce a shark like Blake Hartwell.
She’s not just a fixer. She's a dragon. Small, fierce, guarding her hoard.
“Sisters,” I agree, keeping my voice neutral. “Always stressful.” I don’t mention the tears. Don’t mention the money. “You ready for cocktail hour? Mom’s final candidate awaits.”
Jane visibly latches onto the distraction. “The corporate clone? Bring it on.” She squares her shoulders, the vulnerability tucked away behind a flash of determined mischief. “What’s the play? More puck bunny? Or should we escalate?”
“Your call. You’re the demolition expert.” I gesture towards the bathroom. “I need a quick rinse. Five minutes.”
“Take ten,” she says, already heading for her suitcase. “I need to accessorize. Sabotage requires the right props.”
By the time I emerge from the shower, towel slung low on my hips, Jane is standing in front of the full-length mirror, critically examining herself.
She’s swapped her sundress for a sleek, dark green wrap dress that hugs her curves in a way that should be illegal. Her hair is down and artfully tousled. She’s applying lipstick—a deep, bold red.
She catches my reflection in the mirror. “What? Too much?”
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “It’s… perfect.”
It’s a weapon. That dress. That mouth.
She looks like trouble wrapped in silk, and I want every second of the unwrapping.
She turns, a slow, deliberate pivot. “Good. Because I’m going for ‘devastatingly competent femme fatale who might also be secretly unhinged’.” She smacks her lips together. “The lipstick is key. Makes statements pop.”
“What kind of statement are we making tonight?”
“Oh, you’ll see.” Her eyes sparkle with chaotic promise. “Just follow my lead, Prescott. And try not to looktoohorrified.”
Getting ready together feels dangerously domestic.
Jane critiques my shirt choice.
“Too safe. You look like you’re going to a board meeting, not dodging matrimony.”
She also insists I leave the top two buttons undone.
