Chapter 92: This Isn’t A House
"Not if I have you in the private jet with me." Ivy chuckled, grateful for the levity.
"Damn right." Trish grinned.
Before Ivy could respond, the butler appeared, impeccable in his dark suit and white gloves, his posture radiating the Kane estate’s quiet authority.
"Miss Morales," the butler greeted Ivy with a polished bow. Then, with a gracious pivot, his sharp eyes landed on Trish. "Miss...?"
"Whyte." Trish supplied, flashing her most charming smile as if she’d just stepped onto a red carpet.
The butler gave a single, approving nod, clapping his hands once. A young maid materialized instantly from the hallway. She swept forward to receive their bags.
"Miss Whyte. Welcome," the butler continued. "I have a room prepared for you already to freshen up and dress. Your make-up artist will be arriving shortly. Mrs. Kane is personally overseeing the final stages of the meal preparations and insists that you should not trouble yourselves with a single detail."
The butler’s shiny black shoes whispered against the floor as he walked ahead of them up the sweeping staircase. Ivy and Trish followed.
"Sweet Jesus," Trish whispered, clutching the banister as if the staircase itself might swallow her whole. "This isn’t a house. This is Versailles. Did you even know he was this rich?"
Ivy bit her lip, not answering.
"If there is anything you need," the butler went on smoothly, pausing only to glance back at them, "do not hesitate to ask. There is a direct line in your room that rings only to me. I am, of course, at your service." His eyes flicked briefly to Ivy.
He stopped before a tall double door and, with ceremonial grace, pushed it open.
Trish gasped so loudly Ivy feared she might choke on her own tongue. "Oh my God." Her eyes darted around the room—vaulted ceilings, an enormous bed, a balcony that spilled sunlight over. A vanity sparkled with trays of untouched luxury cosmetics, and a rack of gowns waited along one wall.
Quickly, Trish spun toward the butler with wide, pleading eyes. "Does Mr. Kane have a brother?"
The butler arched a single brow, a flicker of wry amusement breaking through his professionalism. "Which Mr. Kane?" he asked smoothly.
"The groom," Trish offered immediately, a wicked gleam in her eyes.
"No, he doesn’t. Will that be all?"
Ivy turned quickly, flustered by Trish’s brazenness. "Yes, Mr.—I’m sorry. What do I call you?"
"Just call me James," he said smoothly, with a short bow. "I will leave you to it." He shut the door softly behind him.
The silence lasted all of two seconds before Trish’s voice pierced it. "Ivy... oh my lord. Oh my lord!" She clutched her chest. "Were you a saint in your past life? Because this level of karmic reward does not just happen to a regular girl!"
"Come on, Trish, you’re embarrassing me." Ivy rolled her eyes, cheeks hot, and turned to the bags. The ornate gilded mirror across the room reflected her blush, catching the way her eyes glimmered—caught between nerves and wonder. She busied herself with unpacking before her friend saw too much of her vulnerability.
She pulled out her gown carefully, smoothing her hands over the fabric. Trish had bullied her into this choice from the catalogue Mrs. Kane had sent. Ivy had almost said no, terrified of being swallowed up by a dress worth more than her rent for an entire year, but Trish had insisted.
"Please, please, hook me up with one of his friends. Please." Trish clasped her hands dramatically, nearly tumbling onto the enormous bed.
"He has one friend." Ivy kept her voice flat as she laid the gown carefully on the bed, trying to keep her focus on the task instead of the wild swirl of emotions tightening her chest.
"Yes!" Trish squealed, already bouncing a little on the mattress. "That one!"
Ivy gave her a side-eye, lips twitching. "He’s married." She deadpanned it, folding her lingerie into a drawer.
"Yeah, whatever." Trish waved a hand dismissively, sprawling backward across the bed. "Do you know how many married men I’ve been with this year alone? I don’t mind being a mistress to an insanely wealthy hunk of a married man. Especially if he throws diamonds at me every time I leave his bed. I’m not even picky. Gold will do."
"Trish!"
Trish rolled onto her stomach, chin propped in her palms. "Don’t give me that saintly look, Ivy. You’ve landed yourself a fantasy—hot, rich, powerful, and good in bed. Your words, not mine. So don’t blame me if I want my own piece of Kane real estate."
Ivy shook her head. Winn was good in bed. Too good. So good it frightened her sometimes—because her body was already loyal, addicted, and her heart... well, her heart was slipping down the same road, no matter how hard she tried to fight it.
"Trish, please. Can we concentrate on why we are here? The party will start soon." Ivy chastised, smoothing the folds of her dress across the bed.
There was a polite knock on the door. Ivy strode quickly to open it. Standing there was Sylvia, impeccably dressed in a simple black dress that suggested elegance without trying too hard.
"Hey, Syl!" Ivy exclaimed, genuinely happy to see her.
"I was hoping I could help you prepare," Sylvia said, stepping inside, her eyes scanning the room.
"Sure." Ivy gestured toward the bed where Trish was. "This one here is utterly useless," she said, nodding toward Trish. "This is Trish. Trish, this is Sylvia, Winn’s sister."
"Hi!" Trish jumped off the bed with exaggerated enthusiasm. "I am the friend and chief bridesmaid to be, at your service."
"Oh... great. Glad to have you here. I hope everything is to your liking," Sylvia said politely.
"Of course," Ivy replied. "Come on. We can start with my hair." She gestured to the vanity.
"Oh... you didn’t get a stylist?" Sylvia asked.
"I’d rather be simple," Ivy replied, shrugging. "And Trish here is quite adequate... if she can pick her jaw up off the floor once in a while."