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November 10 - November 11, 2025
Flirting comes as naturally to me as breathing. I can’t help it. I love women, and they love me.
There are plenty of faces I don’t recognise. They must be from the bride’s side. Anthony’s fiancée, Rebekka Remington, is from New York. No doubt she brought an entourage with her. While I’ve heard Anthony banging on about her perfect tits and ass that he can’t wait to fuck, I’ve yet to lay eyes on her myself. Curiosity flickers in my chest about the woman who is entering our lives—because it is our lives, not just his. We move in the same circles.
Fuck—those eyes. They’re enormous, emerald, and utterly fucking arresting. They meet mine with an intensity that’s so powerful it feels like a head on collision–shocking and soul-shattering in equal measure. She’s breathtaking—literally. The air continues to rush from my lungs, my heart thunders in my chest, and for once in my life, I’m lost for one of my famous flirtatious lines.
This woman, this ethereal creature, possesses the kind of beauty that belongs on the pages of glossy magazines. She looks untouchable. Airbrushed to perfection—except she needs no such illusion.
She’s perfectly polished, impossibly poised—she isn’t just beautiful. She’s fucking devastating. A vision designed to ruin men.
I’ve never experienced such a raw, visceral, primal attraction to a woman before. I came here in search of a smoke—what I got was an inferno.
‘Not when I’m here for the wedding.’ She winces. ‘You’re here with the bride.’ It’s not a question. With that accent, it’s the only explanation. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut, then blinks them open again. ‘I am the bride.’ Fuck.
even if the reality couldn’t be further from the truth. My marriage is a shambles. My father’s gambling debts were the beginning of the end. Decades of Remington prestige undone by one man’s weakness. Investors fled, creditors circled, and our family name was dragged to the brink of ruin. The De Courcy bank swooped in like saviours, with polished smiles and promises of rescue. But the price of salvation wasn’t just money. It was me.
Marriage to Anthony bound me to Dublin, where I was handed the shiny title of CEO of Remington Publishing Ireland. I love my job. Love the business I’ve built. It’s my baby. It’s just a shame I had to trade my freedom, my sanity—and my very soul to keep it.
I glance at the Rolex Oyster clock on the wall—another one of Anthony’s prized possessions—just like me. He takes me out every once in a while. Plays with me occasionally—for his pleasure—never mine, then w...
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In the beginning, I had hoped we might grow to love each other, or at least co-exist respectfully. But while having a wife from a prestigious family looks great on paper, my husband resents me. Resents being forced into this marriage as I was, and every so often, he likes to remind me of that. Usually on nights like this. Bastard.
‘Mrs De Courcy.’ Patrick nods his head as he greets me. ‘Please. It’s Rebekka.’ I’ve begged him a million times not to call me that. I might be Anthony’s wife, but I point blank refuse to change my name—a fact which I know bugs the hell out of my husband. Naturally, that only makes me dig my heels in further.
And then I see him. Rian Beckett. The ridiculously hot, flirtatious guy from my engagement party. Our best man. My husband’s best friend. One of the few friends I’ve made since I moved to this country. And the only man I think about when I close my eyes.
And just like the first night in the De Courcy library, he sets my heart pounding in an erratic rhythm that it has no right to feel.
It’s been three years, two weeks and two days since Rebekka Remington rocked the world as I knew it. Two years, ten months and two weeks since I stood beside my best friend at the altar and watched him marry the woman I wanted. And I’ve watched him do his utmost to chip away at her spirit and her resolve in that time—while I bleed silently beside her, dying a little more each time he does.
Chemistry pulses in the air between us. She feels it. I know she does. Because every fleeting touch over the past three years has sent us jolting guiltily apart. The dinners where we’ve brushed hands over the table.
The times I’ve kissed her cheek in what should be a simple greeting, but somehow sets my skin on fire. It would be odd if I dropped out of Anthony’s life, even though being in it is killing me. There’s no way to avoid her.
My brother Caelon chooses this exact moment to walk in with his wife, Ivy. Ivy’s an avid reader–mostly romance—Caelon swears it makes her hornier than a teenager at prom. Over the past couple of years, Rebekka has formed a close friendship with Ivy and my other sisters-in-law, Scarlett and Avery,
so I’m not surprised to see them here tonight, but I am fucking grateful. They make a beeline straight for us.
Zara’s the youngest, but I regularly get called Baby Beckett. Or little Beckett. Both piss me off more than I’ll ever admit. Maybe because the woman I’m obsessed with is five years older than me. ‘Great to see you. I thought the place would be packed with women,’ Caelon says.
‘And I’ve told you before, there’s nothing babyish about me.’ I kiss Ivy’s cheek, leaving my lips a beat too long just to piss Caelon off.
‘Ah, what?’ Ivy plays along. ‘I want to see if it’s true what they say.’ ‘What do they say?’ Anthony leans in with a grin. ‘Becketts are blessed.’ Ivy and I chant in unison.
‘I saw what you were doing.’ She cocks a perfectly plucked eyebrow, then glances at Rebekka. ‘You’ll get yourself in trouble, Baby Beckett.’ She elbows my ribs playfully. ‘Only if I get caught.’ I wink again, and she chuckles, assuming I’m joking. I am joking, aren’t I? I laugh it off, but the truth is, I want Rebekka so badly it carves me open. Guilt sluices through my stomach.
to Rebekka, who is concluding her speech. She searches through the sea of faces until her eyes land on mine. Through the dimness, our eyes connect. The crowd fades. ‘Thank you so much for your support. I appreciate you more than you will ever know.’ Ditto, my darling. Ditto. Just a crying shame you’re married to my best friend.
Rian Beckett. I’ve thought about the night we met a million times since. In the beginning, I brushed it off as a harmless flirtation, but that sizzling attraction between us hasn’t faded over the years. No, it’s got gradually stronger with every agonising minute we’re together. We’ve spent holidays skiing with Ivy and Caelon and the other Becketts. Birthdays. Christmases.
I should be grateful. The last thing I need is him setting my soul on fire while I’m trying to chill out. And yet… I can’t deny there’s a flicker of disappointment burning inside too. Pathetic. I shake my head at myself as I gather my things. He’s Anthony’s best friend. Off limits. Even if he weren’t, he’s five years younger than me and Dublin’s most notorious playboy. I’ve watched him leave more nightclubs than I can count with a different woman on his arm—blonde, brunette, redhead, take your pick. And every single time, it’s cut way deeper than any of Anthony’s betrayals.
My in-laws are welcoming but not overly warm. Anthony is their golden boy. I get the impression they think it’s somehow my fault he can’t keep it in his pants. They’re aware of his affairs, and like me, they turn a blind eye. If Marianne asks me one more time if I’ve thought about having a baby, I might actually explode, though. How the hell can I have a baby? Apart from the fact you need to have sex to make one—something which Anthony and I don’t do anymore—I already have a baby to mind—her son. His mood swings are worse than a toddler.
But while I stumbled into the wrong family, at least I stumbled into the right friendships.
‘I would never hurt you.’ There’s something so sincere, so honest, so wholesome in his tone that I believe him. We both know what he’s referring to, and it isn’t physical danger. He knows what his friend is like. He knows, and he’s assuring me that I’m safe with him. Tears spring to my eyes.
‘I could make you pancakes, I suppose.’ ‘You can cook?’ He scoffs. ‘How hard can it be?’ God, this man makes me laugh! ‘That wasn’t a yes. Do you even have the right ingredients?’ I really would like some pancakes right now. ‘We might not do pasta on pizza, sweetheart,’ my stomach flips at the term of endearment, ‘but I’m pretty sure every house in Ireland has eggs and flour,’ he says wryly. ‘Ah ha!’ I lurch forward in my seat. ‘But do you have the main ingredient?’ ‘Which is?’ ‘Maple Syrup, of course!’ I slap his leg before I can stop myself. The sensation of his thick muscular quad beneath
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‘If you weren’t married to my best friend, I’d show you exactly how disgusting you are not, right here, right now in this lift.’ His voice is low and earnest and weighted with the same want that’s haunted me since the night we met. My breath catches in my throat. ‘If I weren’t married to your best friend, I’d let you.’
‘I’d stay here forever if I could get away with it.’ The words slip out before I can stop them. His eyes find mine, and for one heart-stopping second, I wish he’d ask me to.
Her voice is so sincere. So full of sorrow. She’s a shadow of the woman I met in the De Courcy library all those years ago. I hate that he’s done this to her—stripped her of her joy, her spark, her fire. Rebekka Remington was never meant to be caged, and yet my best friend managed to clip her wings and lock her behind glass like a trophy. He doesn’t deserve her. He never fucking did.
‘Yes, my husband is in Paris—with his new PA who just so happens to be young and beautiful.’ She arches her eyebrows, forcing a breezy, careless tone, but I don’t miss the hurt that flickers through her eyes. ‘I’ve seen her. She’s nowhere near as beautiful as you.’ I hiss out a breath. ‘I’ve known Anthony for a long time. For as long as I can remember. But I never knew he was capable of such stupidity.’
‘I’m selfish.’ I admit. ‘Bringing you here was selfish.’ She pauses. ‘Why was it selfish?’ she whispers. ‘You know why, Rebekka.’ I eye her pointedly. She holds my gaze. Heat vibrates between us. Lust wars with logic in my chest. ‘I like you. I’ve always liked you. Which is why it enrages me that he treats you this way.’ She rolls her lips, but she doesn’t break eye contact. ‘Why do you tolerate his behaviour? Do you think he’d tolerate it if the shoe were on the other foot?’ I know for a fact he wouldn’t. Even when we were kids, he didn’t like anyone playing with his toys. And he plays with
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‘I don’t have much choice. You know our marriage wasn’t one born of love. It was part of a deal brokered by our families.’ She exhales a heavy breath. ‘I was played like a pawn, and warned not to complain, because
I got everything I wanted—my own division of the business, my own slice of the pie.’ ‘So broker a new deal now your company is in a better position.’ If Anthony had any idea I was trying to talk his wife into leaving him, he would legitimately rip my head off and shove it down my neck. It’s for her sake, not for mine, because even if she left Anthony, she could never be mine. Anthony would never stand for it. But at least she might have some chance of happiness. ‘It’s not that simple.’ She shakes her head. ‘There were stipulations in the contract if we were to ever consider divorce. If I
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‘It’s no way to live.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s the only way I can live,’ she says sadly. ‘But just so you know, I… I like you too.’ My glass stills, halfway to my lips. Her admission detonates a bomb of emotions inside of me—heat, hope, longing. My greedy gaze eats her up, lust lances my stomach. She likes me. She fucking likes me. To hear her say it out loud sets my world spinning on its axis. Until the cold crash of reality hits. No matter how we feel about each other, we can never act on it. And it fucking kills me.
In this very second, I hate my best friend more than I’ve ever hated anyone. Well, almost. I hate myself more for not speaking up after their engagement party. For not at least trying to stop the wedding. For not admitting that after one brief exchange with his fiancée, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was meant for me—not him. Would it have made any difference? Probably not.
How long can I go on in this loveless marriage? How long can I go on pining for a man I can never have? But what other choice do I have? Lose everything I ever worked for?
‘You need the hair of the dog.’ ‘I can’t stomach it.’ I counter gently. I’m not referring to the drink. I’m referring to being surrounded by all these couples so sickeningly in love that I have to question every single one of my life choices since my father told me I was to marry Anthony De Courcy. And I can’t stomach being in such close proximity with the man I crave like a goddamn fucking drug. The man whose t-shirt I stole and tucked beneath my pillow for later. The man who haunts my dreams.
Fuck him. My husband thinks it’s okay for him to stick his dick anywhere he likes, but God forbid I get any notions. I’m under no illusion. Anthony De Courcy is a possessive man. He doesn’t want me, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have me. He’d take it as a personal affront.
‘Let’s get you home.’ The words lodge somewhere between my ribs. My pulse skips. Home. I wish I had one. Truth is, I’ve never felt at home in the penthouse. In this city. In this country. Except for when I’m with him.
‘I lose myself in women because the only woman I truly want is already taken.’
The last cord of restraint inside me snaps spectacularly. Before I know it, I’m pushing her back inside the doorway, my hands are in her hair, cupping her cheeks. She reaches up to palm the nape of my neck; our mouths crash together—lips, tongues, teeth. She tastes like champagne and hunger, and I am fucking starving for her. White-hot lust lances every cell in my body. This. This is what I’ve been dreaming about. Finally, I feel like I’ve come home.
‘Sweetheart, it’s been three years, two weeks and four days since we met. Tell me… do you think this thing between us is going to blow over? Or blow up in our faces?’
‘You… you… counted the days?’ Her pristinely shaped eyebrows knit together. ‘I can’t help it. Every fucking second has felt like an hour. Every minute you’ve been with him felt like a month. Your wedding was the worst day of my life.’ If I had any sense, I’d shut my fucking mouth. But I’m not known for being the shrewdest Beckett. I’m known for being the boldest. And I’m dangerously close to telling my best friend’s wife that I don’t just like her, no. I fucking love her. Because I do. There’s no other word for this agony. To the point it causes me physical pain, and has done from the second I
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After Rebekka’s whispered confession in the back of the Bentley, I haven't even looked at another woman, let alone fucked one. Truth is, if I can’t have her, I don’t want anyone.
‘How long?’ ‘How long have I been obsessed with her?’ I glance at the chunky silver timepiece on my wrist. ‘Exactly three years, nine weeks and five days.’ ‘Fuck,’ he splutters. Horror etches into the lines around his mouth. ‘Have you been having an affair?’ His tone is incredulous. ‘One kiss. That was all.’ Clarity creeps across his face. ‘Hozier.’ ‘Yep.’ ‘This is bad. Really fucking bad, bro.’ He takes a huge mouthful of whiskey and signals to the barman for two more. ‘I know.’ I sigh. ‘He’s your best friend—even if he is a total douche,’ Sean reminds me. ‘They exchanged vows. Their families
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again, not seeing her isn’t exactly a fucking picnic either.’
