“I know,” he snaps, glaring at me as if I forced the confession out with a knife. “But one night I was scrolling. Don’t ask me why—I couldn’t sleep—and I stumbled across her profile.”
I arch a brow.
“She was… Fuck, Worth. She was captivating. I couldn’t look away. So I kept watching. Her videos, her stories.” He shakes his head, almost disgusted with himself. “Imagine my surprise whenI show up to Willow’s and find out she’s Mya’ssister. I had no fucking idea.”
I lean forward, arms crossed. “Okay. What’s the big deal?”
His laugh is bitter. “What’s the big deal? She’s a beautiful twenty-one-year-old influencer with the body of a goddess. She has no business being around me or my son. How the hell am I supposed to focus while she’s parading through my life? I can’t function when she’s around. She’s—” Griffin cuts himself off. “Forget it.”
For a moment, I just stare. And then a laugh rips out of me.
Griffin’s eyes narrow. “What the hell is so funny?”
“This is karma.”
His scowl deepens. “Karma?”
“Yeah. For every time you mocked me about hiring Mya. For every time you called me whipped, distracted, unprofessional… Look at you.” I gesture at him. “A gorgeous twenty-something smiled your way and suddenly you’re spiraling.”
His glare could cut glass. “It’s not the same thing.”
“It’sexactlythe same thing.Andyou stalked her social media.” I pour myself a drink, shaking my head. “Welcome to my world, brother. Tiana got under your skin, and now you can’t shake her off. ”
Griffin mutters something obscene and stalks toward the second bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
I take a sip of scotch, still grinning, the Eiffel Tower glittering beyond the window. Paris is going to be fun.
Later that evening,while the girls are still roaming Parisian boutiques, Griffin and I slip away to meet one of his brothers,Adrian—who now lives in France to run his Formula 1 team—for dinner.
The driver drops us at Le Petit Lutetia, a tucked-away bistro near Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
Adrian is already seated near the back, one arm slung casually over the chair beside him. His cane is tucked neatly between the table and his seat—close enough to reach, but not on display.
“About time,” he says when he notices us, a grin breaking across his face.
Griffin reaches him first, clasping his shoulder before pulling him into a careful hug. “It’s good to see you, little brother.”
When Adrian first lost mobility, watching him move slower, get frustrated, and go from world-class race driver to man-relearning-steps gutted all of us. But he’s been working hard, and with his new physical therapist (the one he’s totally, absolutely, completelynotin love with), he’s damn near himself again. He still needs a cane and a wheelchair sometimes, but his swagger is back.
Once we’re settled, the waiter takes our orders, setting down our drinks when my phone vibrates on the table.
I pick up. “Worth Miller.”
“Good evening, sir. Apologies for the interruption, but we need authorization before processing some charges to your Black Card.”
I lean back in my chair, already shaking my head. “Go on.”
“First, Dior for €500,000.”
My brows tick upward, but I keep my face neutral.
Half a million at Dior. Jesus, Mya.
“Second, Cartier for €325,000.”
I drag a hand across my mouth, forcing my expression to stay flat.
“And lastly, a private opera singer and an entire string quartet booked for tomorrow evening. €150,000.”