Page 14 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Amanda, I’m sorry.”
“Are you? Because if you’ve changed your mind, I can have my things moved back this evening. We can salvage this… hiccup.”
“No,” I say, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. “I’m not interested in marriage. Not right now. Maybe never.”
The silence stretches so long, I check to see if we’ve been disconnected.
“Did you ever love me, Bryce?”
There’s a sudden drop in my stomach. I should say yes. It would be kinder. Easier. But my silence speaks volumes.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” I say, the words sounding hollow in my ears.
“As your father always says, intentions are irrelevant. Results are what matter. I trust you’ll wait to announce our separation. Give me time to establish my next steps?”
“Of course.”
“Tell people I’m staying at the lake house to care for my mother. She’s had another anti-aging teenager blood infusion and neck rejuvenation.”
“Whatever you prefer. And, Amanda, I wish you luck.”
“I won’t need it, having dated a Sterling now. When I find someone more deserving, I’ll let you know—might even save you a seat at the wedding. However, if you do come to your senses, you have my number.”
The call ends, leaving me staring at my darkened screen.
Amanda was precisely the type of woman I was expected to marry. Beautiful, polished, socially connected. The female equivalent of me—bred for a life of luxury and trained to keep up the façade.
But did I love her?Hmm. Since when did that matter?
I can’t think of a single couple in my social circle who are actually in love. Before they divorced, my parents treated marriage like a business arrangement with occasional photo opportunities. My father’s friends trade in wives as if they’re depreciating assets. My mother’s circle views husbands as necessary accessories, like statement jewelry but with stock options.
Even Gavin—practical, focused Gavin—is marrying Fiona Whitfield to cement his place in Beverly Hills aristocracy. His new wealth paired with the Whitfield real estate old-money empire creates a power alliance that benefits them both.
Love means risk, and no one I know is willing to roll the dice on that. When it comes to duty or desire, duty always comes first.
And speaking of duty—I have a gala to attend.
***
Ineedsomeair.
Less than an hour into this party, and I’m calculating my escape route. How many more politicians’ hands must I shake? How manymore soul-numbing conversations about market fluctuations and property values will there be? My mother’s grand ballroom is suffocating—a sea of designer gowns, custom tuxedos, and practiced smiles.
“And where is that lovely girlfriend of yours?” asks the governor’s wife, Mrs. Harrington.
“Amanda’s at her family’s lake house. Her mother needed her assistance after a… procedure.” The lie rolls off my tongue for the thirty-eighth time. Each repetition digs the hole deeper, and I know when the truth finally surfaces—that Amanda left me because I wouldn’t propose—the gossip will spread through Beverly Hills faster than wildfire.
Her final revenge: leaving me to face the social firing squad while she licks her wounds in private.Well played.
I adjust my bow tie and slip out the back, leaving behind the glint of diamonds, the murmur of polite malice, and the opulent pretense of my mother’s charity gala.
The scotch burns my throat as I head past the tennis court. It’s quiet here—tucked behind a guesthouse, surrounded by manicured hedges and strategically placed greenery. The only place that ever felt remotely private growing up.
Which is ironic because the estate that glows behind me could have its own zip code. My mother’s mini-kingdom is a monstrous testament to excess. Staff living quarters, bowling alley, home theater, spa, gift-wrapping room, an indoor Greek-inspired pool, and a garage that could house a small dealership. All guarded twenty-four hours a day by ex-military men in suits who report to my mother like she’s the head of Homeland Security.
I linger in the shadows, downing the last of my scotch. I’m debating whether to commit the social sin of getting a second drink far too early when something catches my eye.
