Page 121 of Mexico Can Choke On It
She gasps, laughing. “Do you think Oksanaenjoyedit? I mean—she made direct eye contact while ripping. That’s… intimate.”
“She kept giving a thumbs-up before each pull, saying, ‘Vis vill hurt!’” I say, slipping into a terrible Russian accent.
“Petra!”
“Seriously, if Oksana can do that to my landing strip, imagine if the CIA recruited her—we’d all be doomed. She’d wax the nuclear codes right out of people.”
We both explode into giggles, the kind that makes my stomach ache in the best way. For a split second, I’m hit with that familiar rush, the one I only get when I’m with Katie and Camila. That sweet spot of a friendship where I can let my freak flag fly, say the wildest damn thing, and never worry about being judged. I wonder about Hana. I really hope Fiona is the type of bestie who lets her be her true self.
“Okay, real talk time,” I say, angling my head to her. “What’s your actual dream? And don’t say radiant skin or world peace.”
She sighs. “I’ve always dreamed of experiencing love like you see in K-dramas. Where two people are so connected they can feel each other’s heartbreak across oceans. Rain-soaked confessions, a dramatic slow-motion forehead kiss before the train pulls away, that moment when he cups your face and says you’re his entire universe… I’m a sucker for that stuff. It’s stupid.”
Her words trigger a weird discomfort—my emotional shield goes up.I’m too cynical for this gushy crap, aren’t I?I’m locked and loaded with a dozen sarcastic remarks, but honestly… I want that too. I want Bryce to look at me like I’m his whole damn world. I’d love for him to take in every chaotic, unhinged part of me—and not just tolerate it, butwantit. To choose me.
No, this is about Hana.I focus back on her, if nothing else but to avoid confessing my pathetic unrequited love story.
“So… how did you go from ‘epic soulmates crying in the rain’ to signing a marriage contract with someone who witnessed electricity getting invented?”
For the first time since we’ve met, Hana falters—her sunshiney face dims. She avoids my gaze, staring up at the ornate ceiling instead.
“It’s what’s expected,” she says quietly. “And that movie kind of love isn’t real. It’s fun to dream, but it’s silly. And my family always tells me to get my head out of the clouds.”
“Screw that,” I say, because somebody needs to. “Love is real. And this is your life we’re talking about.”
“My parents had an arranged marriage,” Hana continues. “Only a thirteen-year age difference, unlike my fifty. And they’ve built this calm, respectful partnership. Mom insists that’s far superior to passionate, emotional relationships because it endures. And Daddy says this marriage is a brilliant strategic move. My family’s portfolio will grow thirty percent after the merger, so that’s good for everyone.”
The silence stretches between us, filled by the rhythmic whisper of waves and gentle trickle of water over smooth stones beyond the windows.
“Ah yes, love—brought to you by spreadsheets and generational wealth.”
“Joke all you want, but…” Hana’s voice catches slightly. “I cannot disappoint my family. My fiancé? He’s… decent. Older, sure, but very kind. And I need to be happy because that’s more than most people get.”
I study her expression through the steam. This woman has built her whole identity around pleasing others. Trading her happily ever after for a portfolio marriage. And the way she talks about her family’s expectations? As if the words “duty” and “desire” are interchangeable.
Holy shit!Bryce is trapped in the same duty-bound prison. Born into tradition. Raised for duty. Groomed to lead.
Unlike Hana, he’s expected to not just marry, but also be the future head of his entire family legacy. A goddamn financial dynasty that influences markets globally. The pressure Hana feels from her parents? I bet Bryce feels that multiplied by a trillion.
Of course he could only offer one night.
That’s all I evercouldbe to him.
His life isn’t about what he actually wants—it’s about what he’sallowedto want. And a working-class bartender with a smart mouth? Not a chance I’m on the pre-approved list.
I have to live with the fact that for a single magical evening, I got to see the man under the polished blueprint. The version of Bryce who let his hair get messy and his hands get reckless. The part of him that isn’t the composed heir apparent everyone expects.
He looked at me like I was the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Stop torturing yourself, Petra.That hint of something, that flash of connection—it’s meaningless. His life is mapped out, a path he’s locked on to, and there’s nomein it.
I was his brief rebellion against a predetermined future. Nothing more.
***
Twohose-downs,threespincycles, and one extremely targeted jet steam later… and apparently, I’m not done. I’m still at this damn spa. Next up on the itinerary? Gemstone massage.
Turns out my joke about being massaged by diamonds? Not a joke. Rich peoplereallydo that shit.
