Because the three of them? They'd danced this dance before. The question had always been the same: who was the real woman of Parker Black?
Not just beef—a celestial-grade flame-grilled rivalry at school, so potent it could've fed the entire Trojan War again.
Tessa, Maya, and Cleopatra. Three titans. Three archetypes. All once locked in an ancient, beautifully toxic contest over who was the true woman of Parker Black. Not Parker the Prince of Existence. No. They fought for the man who once used his voice to order six bubble teas with extra tapioca, wen he just got to know he had infinity money, because he liked the texture. That Parker.
And out of that holy war? Tessa won. With style, fangs, and a $50,000 tip to the universe.
Even now, as he watched the tension resurrect itself like an unkillable soap opera subplot, Parker felt a rare curl at the corner of his mouth.
In Aphrodite's name, he missed that version of himself sometimes.
