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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

We’re halfway down the dock when a woman says, “So you’re Maiken.”

I stop and turn slowly. I have all the time in the world to acknowledge her existence. Or not. My spine straightens, shoulders rolling back as I shift my weight onto one hip, the universal signal that I'm about to become someone's problem.

Peony Jones-Musgrove is posed like a swan in a silver sheath dress that’s trying too hard to whisper old Hollywood but lands somewhere closer to award show seat-filler .

Her hair’s blown out and cemented into place.

She’s on the arm of that older man I saw her with near the Ravn Racing garage.

He’s the team owner, I think? Probably. His smile says, “My hobbies are cigars and tax evasion.”

Peony excuses herself from his side and crosses toward me in stilettos that look more lethal than functional.

She smiles like a plastic daisy, all teeth and no life.

“I just wanted to say…” She trails off, tilts her head like we’re in on some shared joke.

“There’s no reason why we can’t be friendly. ”

Friendly.

I arch a brow, already bristling, but she barrels ahead.

“We move in the same circles now. It’s bound to happen.

I thought maybe we could keep things civil?

” Her right brow arches and I’m pretty sure it’s unintentional bitch-itude showing.

Confirmed when that fake smile returns and she adds, slow and deliberate like I’m extra stupid, “Especially for Reece’s sake. ”

There it is. Her honesty showing through the pretty packaging. Be nice, for your husband. Stay in your lane and know your place, which is beneath me, or I’ll find a way to make him pay. She’s a self-serving cunt wrapped in pearls and pretty words.

I flash her a smile that could slice granite. “You’re adorable when you pretend we’re peers.”

Her mouth twitches. “I just mean — this whole world — it’s a lot to take in when you’re new to it.”

“Oh, honey.” I invade her space. “I’m not new to anything. Especially not snakes in lipstick.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Let me make this reeeal simple,” I say, soft and slow, ’cause she’s the idiot here. “I know what you did. And who you did it with. Keep that in mind if you think you can fuck with my husband or me again. You. Can’t. I hold the bomb and I can drop it anytime I want.”

Her eyes go wide, and for a second, she forgets to smile. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I lean closer and speak a little softer.

I’m making her work for this threat. “Sure you do. But here’s a spoiler for you: I’m not some boarding school flunky.

Whatever game you think you’re playing, I’m not joining in because I make my own rules, Peony.

I will hit you hard and fast, and I’ll give exactly zero fucks when I walk away. Are we clear?”

Her nostrils flare. “What? You’re wearing my ring, so now you think you own the paddock?”

I laugh. Loud and bright and all teeth. “I’m wearing my ring. And I just owned you .”

Reece appears at my side just as she falters back a step, his hand brushing the small of my back. It’s not a warning. It’s approval.

We keep walking.

And Peony?

She doesn’t follow.

The moment we step aboard the yacht, it’s like entering a galaxy lined in lacquered teak and dripping money. Champagne flutes shimmer on silver trays. Low music thrums. The crowd is all silk and ambition.

Reece hands our invitation to the hostess at the top of the gangplank, who beams like she’s been waiting just for us.

“Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard,” she says, with a kind of reverence that makes my spine straighten. “Welcome.”

Reece’s hand slips into mine, his thumb brushing lightly over my glove. We cross the deck together, and heads turn. They always do, but tonight it’s different. The whispers don’t bother me. Not anymore.

Tonight, I came dressed for the kill.

My dark green dress hugs every curve, the silk moving like shimmering liquid with each step.

The gloves are elbow-length, the heels pale pink stilettos that turn every stride into punctuation.

And the necklace at my throat is a triple strand of luminous pink pearls and freakin’ diamonds.

It’s a gift from the man currently scanning the crowd.

Reece is in a three-piece hunter green suit that’s so sharp it could draw blood. Pale pink shirt open at the collar. No tie. Just a little disobedience to match his wife’s sass.

We look like we own the goddamn boat.

Hell, for all I know, maybe we do.

We spend the first half hour drifting. Chat with Petra and Coy, shake hands with sponsors, pose for photos against the skyline.

The party’s in full swing, every corner glittering with champagne and politics, ego and elegance.

There’s a DJ on the lower deck playing slick downtempo remixes, and the bar carved into the upper deck is an altar to excess.

That’s where Graham hunts us down.

Reece sees him first. My husband’s posture goes ramrod straight, and I know what’s lurking before I even turn. Reece’s muscles have tightened like he’s preparing for calculated violence.

Good. I've been hoping for another shot at dear ol’ Dad.

Graham Pritchard approaches in a crisp black tux, expression full of the kind of smugness only the chronically entitled can wear like cologne.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even greet us like a normal person, just launches straight into a low, needling comment. “You clean up well, Maiken. Let’s hope the media doesn’t ruin the photos by digging through your archives again.”

Reece’s jaw ticks. “Not tonight, Graham.”

Papa Prick-chard doesn't even try to hide the sneer. “You’ve played this well, but let’s be honest. The moment she slips, the fairytale unravels.”

Before I move or speak, Reece does, and his voice is low and razor-sharp. “You mean the moment you twist it into a headline.”

Graham lifts a brow. “I’m just saying optics matter. Your wife comes with baggage.”

Reece steps closer. “So do you. But I chose to be related to her.”

And damn if that doesn’t make my throat burn.

Graham’s eyes narrow, but I cut in before he can say something worse.

“I didn’t marry your son for optics. I married a man who sees past headlines. Which is lucky, because your name’s always been printed in bullshit.”

Graham stares at me like he’s never been spoken to that way before, but he recovers fast. He scans my gown, my pearls, and my lipstick. And I know that look. It’s not admiration. It’s inventory.

“Nice necklace. Bet that wasn’t cheap.” His gaze flicks to Reece. “Though I suppose if you’re going to buy the performance, you might as well pay for the costume.”

Reece lets go of my hand.

Slowly, he steps closer to his father. He’s not being loud or dramatic, just shifting gravity. He grips Graham’s shoulder and leans in close enough to speak directly into his ear. I can’t hear what he says over the music and murmur of conversation around us, but I see the old man flinch.

He jerks back, face gone pale.

“You’re bluffing.” I’ve never heard his voice that tight.

Reece straightens, calm as stone. “Go on then.”

There’s a beat where neither moves.

Graham’s jaw locks down so hard, I see the muscles jerk. He considers his eldest son, not with his usual arrogance, but with caution . Then he gives a single sharp nod and walks away.

Reece turns back to me, face still unreadable.

I lift a brow. “What was that?”

He exhales, loosens his shoulders and leads me through the crowd, unhurried, but obviously seeking a quiet corner.

We find one at the bow near stairs that lead to a motherfucking helicopter pad (I shit you not).

Still, he keeps his voice low as he leans close.

“A Nitro team member on our hotel floor recorded him the morning he barged into the room in Vegas.”

My eyes go hella-wide. “Seriously?”

“Every word. Every insult. All on video. Starting with him pounding on the door, then letting himself in, until you walk out, head held high and I threaten to throw him out the window. We’ve got all of it.”

My jaw drops and I stare at my husband. I might be even more stunned than when he told me he’s a friggin’ hojillionaire. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

“A few days. Think of it as an insurance policy. He’s never going to fuck with us again.”

I gape at him. “How can you be so sure?”

He grins, wicked and gleaming. “I sent a copy to Sheyna. And to Frankie.”

I burst out laughing so hard I almost choke.

“Oh my God . You gave the nuclear codes to our mothers ?”

“Just in case.” His eyes dance. “They’re bloody terrifying compared to me.”

I wipe tears from the corners of my eyes. Thank fuck for waterproof mascara. “Marrying you was the best drunken decision I ever made, Reece Pritchard.”

He pulls me close and kisses me, warm and sure. “Same, Maiken Lange Pritchard.”

We smooch a little more, then he pulls me back toward the party. “If I keep putting my tongue down your throat, I’ll need to find a more secluded spot.”

I giggle. “Did you really threaten to throw him out a window?”

“Yes, and I have the receipts to prove it.”

The music changes as we descend to the lower deck. It’s something slower now, velvety and rich, the kind of song that belongs to starlight and champagne.

There’s a dance floor tucked between two curved staircases, polished like glass. Only a few couples occupy it, swaying gently in evening gowns and open collars. Reece takes my hand and pulls me close, one arm sliding around my waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I go willingly.

We sway together, the sea gently rocking beneath us, the world narrowing down to the scent of his cologne and the press of his palm against the small of my back.

Two weeks ago, I didn’t know this man.

Two weeks ago, I was performing on a stage in a dim club, tossing silk stockings and teasing out fantasies for strangers, no idea how quickly my life was about to spin.

And now?

Now I’m slow dancing with a Formula One driver on a billionaire’s yacht under the Arabian stars, wearing pink pearls and red lipstick, madly in love with a man who terrifies me with how good he is.

I never saw this coming. Not the love. Not the marriage. Not the war I’d have to fight just to prove I deserve both.

Sometimes life crashes into you, and if you’re strong enough to get up, brush off the debris, and keep on racing, you might discover that shunt was the best thing to ever happen to you.

Being in my husband’s arms now, his heart beating steady against mine?

I wouldn’t change a thing. And I won’t. I’ll still perform as Mai-Lan Rouge. I’ll still make my own costumes and choreograph my own shows. I’ll keep teaching children how to plié and septuagenarians how to bump and grind.

Reece presses his lips to my ear, and I shiver as his hot breath brushes my skin. “You good, honeybee?”

I smile and look up into his green eyes. “I’m golden, speed demon.”

He pulls me closer. “Yeah. You are.”