“Perfect.” I chuckled.
“Hop in, mate.” He jumped in and slapped the seat beside him. “Where we headed?”
“To the marina,” I replied, launching myself onto the seat.
“No worries. Hold tight.” The golf cart lurched forward as we tore off down the road.
I grabbed the roof handle, peeking over my shoulder as he steered the cart onto the road. No one was behind us, and I sighed in relief.
Ronnie cracked lame jokes the entire way as somehow, I laughed harder than I had all night. By the time we screeched to a stop at the marina gate, I was pretty sure we’d set some sort of golf cart speed record.
“Righto, you’re all clear now.”
“Thanks, Ronnie. And if I ever need a getaway driver, you’re hired.”
He chuckled. “Sorry again about those clowns,” he called before tearing off into the night.
I hurried down the dock and climbed aboardThe Canoe, pulling out my phone as I stepped onto the deck.
KARSON: Dyson, watch your back. The pack’s on the hunt.
2
THE CLUB
SIX MONTHS LATER | GOLD COAST
KARSON
The journey to the Gold Coast had been all blue skies and calm water as we sailed into the marina. My skin had turned a deep brown after months of island hopping.
Life was good.
“You know,” Dyson said, “you’re not getting out of it this time. It’s our last chance to party before Sydney. This place rocks, and we’re not leaving without hitting the strip.”
“You’re not going to relent, are you? If the paparazzi spot us, it’ll be a nightmare. I don’t want a repeat of Harrison Island. Those photos wereeverywhere.”
“You can’t hide away forever, bro. Anyway, I’ve got a good feeling about tonight.” He grinned, already halfway out the door.
Everywhere we’d sailed, Dyson made friends the second he stepped ashore, while I mostly stayed on board, keeping my distance from prying lenses and endless attention.
Once people found out who my father was, they stopped seeing me and started seeing a billionaire. Then came the photos, the questions, endless headlines tied to Karlos Wells—thebusiness tycoon who’d built SolStar from the ground up and made his first billion before I was born.
It’d been crystal clear to me from an early age that his company came first, and everything else came second. My mother, Phoebe, had her cocktail parties, my father had his empire, and until Drake, a steady trail of nannies had filled the gaps—
“Let’s go, Wells!” Dyson called. “We’ve got women to meet!”
***
“See?” Dyson gestured around the warehouse-style club, aptly named The Loft. “I was right. You’d be crazyto miss this.”
I nodded in agreement. A buzz charged through me as the top-tier DJ tweaked the bass, holding an earphone to one ear and hyping up the crowd while seamlessly blending the next track.
A group of young women in bikinis gathered on the stage, dancing to the beat, and I didn’t protest when Dyson nudged me onto the dance floor.
As the track faded, the compère boomed—far too loudly—about an upcoming modeling contest.
First, the judges would evaluate contestants on a choreographed individual stage presentation—the T-walk. Then, each contestant would perform an act with a partner to showcase their ability to work as part of a duo.
