Page 143 of Hot Lap
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 wearingmyring. And I just ownedyou.”
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.”
