Page 26 of Seal My Fate

“To ‘belle!” they toast, squealing. One of many toasts—and it’s only four p.m. “The future Mrs. Max Lancaster!”

“To me!” Annabelle cheers, beaming. In addition to her robe, hand-stitched with her and Max’s initials in a tiny heart, she’s wearing pink fluffy slippers and a glittering tiara that might possibly not even be fake. “I can’t believe it’s really happening. End of an era, girls!” she crows, waving her glass around.

“And not just for her,” Imogen murmurs beside me. She’s also berobed, with pink goo on her face, but somehow, she still manages to seem far more elegant than the rest of us, taking a sip of champagne as she gives me a knowing smile. “I dread to think what Max is doing to celebrate his final days of freedom.”

“Saint says the bachelor party isn’t until the weekend, right before the wedding,” I report.

“Smart.” Imogen smirks. “That way, he can’t do too much damage. Or get too far,” she adds. “Otherwise, he’ll wind up on a boat in the South Pacific, floating towards freedom.”

I take a bite from one of the spa snacks, an array of exotic fruit. “You think he might try and bail on the wedding?” I ask, feeling a bolt of concern for Annabelle. As much as I have my reservations about this whole marriage, I can see how excited she is, giggling wildly and posing for pictures with her friends.

“Max? Oh no, he’ll be there, at the end of the aisle with bells on,” Imogen says, confident. “He would never embarrass his father like that, not after all the planning and effort that’s gone into it. Cyrus adores Annabelle. Or rather, he adores her title and breeding. She’s the perfect mogul’s wife. I’m surprised he didn’t try and snap her up himself,” she adds, with a scandalous sparkle in her eyes. “But then, Max is far more charming. And doesn’t have hair plugs.”

“Imogen!” I laugh, relaxing. I was worried about standing out, since Annabelle and the other women have known each other for years, but everybody has been so friendly and welcoming.

It’s almost enough to make me forget the crisis looming outside the swanky confines of the spa: Wren, hidden away in the country, killing time while Saint walks the halls at Ashford, looking for evidence of their crimes. And here I am, playing games of ‘never have I ever’ and hearing all about honeymoon plans, with the whole hen do getting our feet get scrubbed in warm water for the pedicures.

I suppose Saint is right, and I should savor the distraction while I can.

The calm before the storm.

I check my phone again. There’s a text from Wren, right on schedule:

‘Still here, still fine! I’m baking bread, would you believe? I figure I have the time to kill.’

She sends a photo too, of her posing with a bowl of dough.

“Is my cousin worried we’re leading you astray?” Imogen asks. I quickly tuck my phone away.

“What, Saint? No,” I blurt quickly. “He knows what happens on a bachelorette stays there.”

“Oh my god,” one of the other women interrupts, a lanky blonde. “That’s how I know you. You’re the one who hooked Saint!”

“They’re living together,” Annabelle announces loudly. “He asked her to move in with him. In fact, he insisted on it!”

Everyone reacts.

“Oh my god,” one woman gasps, eyes wide. “You locked him down? How did you do it?”

“Yes, tell us your secrets,” another agrees. Fiona, I think her name is, with glossy brown hair and tasteful makeup. “I’ve been waiting simply ages for Dickie let me have so much as a drawer! I mean, God, the man has five guest bedrooms in that penthouse, but I’m still lugging my hair-straighteners in my Longchamp bag every time I spend the night!”

“I… Um…” I blink, thrown by the sudden attention. These wealthy, glamorous women are suddenly all staring at me eagerly, hanging off my every word like I’m some kind of role model. “No secret, I’m afraid,” I manage to reply. “We’re just in love, that’s all.”

“Love?” She deflates, disappointed. “That’s no use to me. Dickie wouldn’t know love if it walloped him over the head.”

“Tessa’s being modest,” Annabelle says with another wink. “She has him hanging off her every word.”

“The great Anthony St. Clair, brought to his knees…” The woman beside me sighs wistfully. “You love to see it!”

And I did, this morning, when he licked me senseless on the kitchen table—and then served me a plate of pancakes. “To soak up all the booze,” he said, with a smirk.

I cough, glad my blush is covered by this face mask. “They’re talking like he’s some kind of celebrity,” I mutter to Imogen, surprised.

She smirks. “In these circles… He is. I mean, eligible future dukes are few and far between. Usually, you have to put up with a few false teeth and jealous ex-wives if you’re going to bag a title. And the Ashford title…” she whistles. “That’s about as old and wealthy as it gets. The land, the company, the accounts… And Saint will inherit it all.”

I feel a cold shiver run down my spine.

I’ve been thinking about the emotional fallout of all of this for Saint: his divided loyalties with his family, the lying and sneaking around, the prospect of a messy trial or scandal when we find the evidence of the drug trial fraud.

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