Page 1 of Knot Like Other Girls

CHAPTER 1

BELLA

The crab on my plate looks like it's been through a wood chipper. Delicate strands of white meat are piled into a sad little mound, barely enough to feed a toddler. I poke at it with my fork, unsure if I'm supposed to eat the dark green leaf on top or if it's just there for decoration.

Across the table, Braxley is holding court, regaling his friends with yet another tale of his social media conquests. His voice grates on my nerves, each word dripping with self-importance.

"And then I told them, 'You simply must use this filter. It'll make your skin look absolutely flawless!' Can you believe it got over a million likes?" He throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing across the restaurant's opulent dining room.

I force a tight smile, trying to look interested. Inside, my stomach is churning, and it's not just from the weird crab concoction. All night, Braxley's been dropping hints about a "big surprise."

I'm not an idiot. I know what's coming, and the thought makes me want to throw myself into the Mediterranean.

A proposal.

From Braxley Worthington III.

The man who can't go five minutes without checking his reflection.

I take a sip of my champagne, wishing it was something stronger. How did I end up here? On some absurdly expensive island off the coast of Spain, surrounded by people who probably spend more on a single meal than I make in a month?

One of Braxley's friends, a rail-thin woman with more plastic in her face than my library card, leans forward. "Braxley, youhaveto tell us about your new skincare line. I hear it's going to revolutionize the industry!"

Braxley preens, soaking up the attention like a sponge. "Well, I don't want to give away all my secrets, but let's just say it involves rare caviar extract and testosterone extracted from albino male giraffes."

The table erupts in chatter. I stab at my crab, imagining it's Braxley's overinflated ego.

"Speaking of alphas," Braxley continues, gesturing vaguely toward the restaurant's entrance, "I had to get new security. Again. The last batch was just so... dreadfully dull. No personality at all."

I glance over at the hulking figures stationed near the doors. They all look the same—crew cuts, dark suits, sunglasses even though we're indoors. I should probably know their names, but Braxley goes through security teams like he goes through selfie filters.

"Yoo-hoo! Muscles!" Braxley calls out, waving his hand dramatically. One of the guards turns slightly, his expression unreadable behind the shades. "Be a dear and fetch me another bottle of Cristal. The '08, not that swill from '10."

The guard doesn't move. Braxley's face contorts into an exaggerated pout. "Hello? Did you hear me? Or are those steroid-enhanced muscles affecting your hearing?"

I cringe, feeling a pang of sympathy for the guard. "Braxley, maybe we should just ask the waiter?—"

"Nonsense!" He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. "That's what they're here for. To serve and protect. Emphasis on serve."

Before I can argue further, a waiter appears with a fresh bottle of champagne. Braxley claps his hands together like an excited child. "Oh, wonderful! You see, Bella? That's the kind of service I expect."

I mumble a thank you to the waiter, trying to catch his eye, to silently apologize for Braxley's behavior. But he's already gone, disappearing into the crowd of wealthy diners.

As Braxley pours himself another glass, chattering away about his latest sponsored post, I find my gaze drifting out the window. The Mediterranean stretches out before us, a vast expanse of inky blackness dotted with the twinkling lights of distant boats. It's beautiful, in a lonely sort of way.

For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to just... leave. To walk out of this restaurant, away from Braxley and his insufferable friends, and just keep going. I could swim out into that dark water, let it carry me away to somewhere quiet. Somewhere without hashtags or follower counts or the constant pressure to be "on."

But that's not an option. Not for me. Not with my family counting on this marriage to solve all their problems.

A burst of laughter snaps me back to reality. Braxley is in the middle of another story, this one involving a mishap with a fake tan and a white Armani suit. His friends are hanging on his every word, gasping and giggling in all the right places.

I try to focus on my food again, but my appetite is long gone. The crab sits untouched, its delicate strands now limp and unappetizing. I push the plate away, earning a disapproving glance from the woman next to me.

"Not hungry, dear?" she asks, her voice dripping with faux concern. "I suppose we have to keep our figures."

I force another smile, resisting the urge to dump my champagne in her lap. "Just saving room for dessert," I lie.

She nods approvingly, then leans in closer, reeking of alcohol and expensive perfume. "Smart girl. You know, when I married my Theodore, I was on a liquid diet for weeks. Had to squeeze into my mother's vintage Dior, you see."

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