Briar's POV

My boyfriend had a body count for orgasms and zero interest in mine.

"We're basically married already." Brandon's mouth was on my neck, one hand already shoving under my dress to find my breast, squeezing like he owned it. "Why wait?"

"Brandon." My fingers curled against his shoulders, "you're going to propose to me tonight, aren't you?"

"Briar." Brandon's hand slid up my thigh, gripping hard enough to leave marks. His breathing got faster, more ragged. That sound he made when he was close. "Relax."

I wrapped my arms around his back the way he liked, pulled him closer. The gesture made me feel better, if only a little. At least there was someone in this house who touched me like I mattered. Even if the touch was brief. Even if the only thing he was chasing was his own finish line.

Brandon groaned, shuddered, and collapsed on top of me.

"God," he panted. "That was exactly what I needed."

He never did make it inside before those three minutes were up.

I waited for him to say something else. Something about the night ahead. Something about the ring I knew was in his jacket pocket because I'd accidentally seen it last week when I was looking for his keys.

He rolled off and started reaching for his pants.

"I have to go down," he said. "There are investors I need to talk to before the speeches."

"Brandon—"

"I'll find you later, okay? First dance. I promise."

He kissed my forehead—fast, perfunctory—and was out the door before I could ask when "later" meant.

I lay there for a full minute, then I sat up and looked at myself in the vanity mirror.

My dress was still on. It had bunched up around my waist. I'd worn it because I wanted to feel beautiful tonight, wanted him to see me walking down those stairs and think that's the woman I'm going to marry.

It was a deep navy blue. Three seasons out of date—I knew that, of course. But it had cost me four months of my teacher's salary. The tag was still in the back because I'd told myself I could return it if things didn't work out.

I smiled at my reflection anyway, because tonight that was supposed to change.

Downstairs, the Coldwell Group's anniversary gala was already in full swing — string quartet, champagne towers, half of Wall Street wearing borrowed smiles. My father stood at the center of it, Marlowe on his arm, Calla glowing beside them in a dress that had definitely not come from two seasons ago.

Nobody looked up when I walked in.

I'd learned, a long time ago, exactly how much space I was allowed to take up in this house. Enough to be useful. Never enough to be seen.

I wasn't Warren Coldwell's daughter in any way that mattered — not the way Calla was. My mother had been someone he'd loved before he married well, before Marlowe, before the version of his life he'd decided to keep. I was the part of the story nobody mentioned at dinner parties.

The orchestra struck up the first waltz. The dance floor cleared, couples pairing off, spinning into the familiar rhythm.

I searched the crowd for Brandon.

He was already on the floor.

With Calla.

His hand was on her waist. Her hand was on his shoulder. They were moving together like they'd practiced a thousand times, her red skirt flaring out with each turn, his eyes locked on hers with that smile he used to give me.

I watched for three full rotations before I could breathe again.

"Look at them," a woman near me said to her companion. "Absolutely gorgeous together."

"Better match than the other one, that's for sure."

"Honestly, doesn't it just make sense? He's doubled his division's revenue two years running, and she's the Coldwell heir. That's a couple."

I gripped my champagne glass so hard my knuckles went white.

This wasn't happening. Brandon wouldn't do this to me. He was going to propose tonight. He'd promised.

And I needed that proposal—not just because I loved him, but because I needed it. A ring on my finger, a husband with his title and his rising star in the company—that was my only way out. Marry Brandon, and suddenly I wasn't just Warren Coldwell's shameful secret anymore.

I'd have a name that meant something, a position that forced people to look me in the eye. I'd have room to breathe, to build something of my own, maybe even carve out a career that wasn't buried under my stepmother's thumb.

He knew that. He knew what this meant to me. And he'd promised.

I set down my glass and started walking. I needed to find him.

The upstairs hallway was empty. Quiet, apart from the muffled music drifting up from below.

Then I heard it.

A laugh, muffled through a door.

I followed the sound to the powder room at the end of the hall. The door was cracked open an inch. Light spilled out.

I pushed it open a few more inches.

Brandon was naked. Calla was naked. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her back pressed against the marble counter. His hands were on her thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise.

"Tell me again," Calla was saying, her voice a breathy moan. "Tell me why you're doing this."

"Because she's a means to an end," Brandon said, not even pausing his rhythm. "The little idiot probably thinks I'm going to propose tonight. Can you imagine? She actually believes I'd marry her."

"God, you're cruel. I love it."

Brandon groaned, his rhythm never faltering. "I've been tormenting her just like you asked. Don't I deserve a reward for that?"

Calla laughed, low and throaty, and I saw her thighs tighten around his waist—a deliberate, vicious squeeze that made him gasp and nearly buckle. "How's that for a reward?" she purred.

Then her eyes shifted in the mirror. She saw me.

She smiled—slow, deliberate, directly at my reflection.

"Then tell me again," she said, her voice pitched higher, louder now. "Tell me I'm the only one you want."

Brandon groaned. "You're the only one. Always have been."

I pushed the door open.

The sound it made was loud enough to stop both of them cold.

Brandon's head snapped toward me. His body went rigid—and I mean completely rigid. I saw the exact moment everything in him went soft.

"Briar—" His voice cracked. "This isn't—I can explain—"

"Explain what?" I stepped into the room. "Explain how you've been fucking my sister while promising to marry me?"

Calla didn't even try to cover herself. She just lounged against the counter, completely naked, completely unashamed.

"Maybe if you'd been better in bed," she said, "he wouldn't have needed me."

I laughed. It was a hollow sound, even to my own ears.

"You really think you're the prize here?" I swept my gaze over her, then down to Brandon. "A woman who gets off on humiliation, and a man who doesn't even last four minutes?"

Brandon's face went red. "Briar, don't—"

"Don't what?" I reached out, grabbed the nearest thing on the counter—an expensive-looking glass bottle, probably a $200 moisturizer. "Don't tell the truth?"

I threw it at him.

It hit the wall behind his head and exploded, glass and liquid spraying everywhere. Brandon screamed, scrambling backward, trying to cover himself with his hands.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"What's wrong with me?" I looked at them. Both of them. Naked. Pathetic. "You wasted three years of my life. Three years of me believing someone actually wanted me."

Calla's smirk had finally faded. "Get out, Briar. You're making a scene."

"You're right," I said. "I am."

I scooped their clothes off the floor, crossed to the window, and threw them both out. The tuxedo and the red Valentino fluttered down into the garden below, and a moment later, muffled shouts drifted up from the darkness.

I turned back to them. Two naked people, frozen in the middle of a disaster they'd made entirely for themselves.

I let my eyes travel down Brandon's body. Slowly.

"Three minutes," I said. "That's all it took. I don't know why I ever thought you were enough."

I stepped toward the door.

"Since you love the spotlight so much," I said, pausing at the threshold, "go ahead. Walk out there. Show everyone your 'three-minute masterpiece.' I'm sure they'll be impressed."

I walked out and didn't look back.