Page 163 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“You have no fucking idea what love is! You don’t treat people you love like this!”
There’s no defending myself. I don’t fight back. I don’t raise my hands. Don’t even straighten my stance.
Because I deserve it.
He’s right.
“I was trying to protect—”
“Bullshit!” he shouts, shaking his hand. “You destroyed her! You destroyed me! And then you call it love? For ten fucking years, you were my brother. I let you in my house. Near myfamily.”
“Gavin, I didn’t plan it. Shejust—”
“Don’t you dare say she just happened to you, like you’re the victim. You’re not some poor bastard who tripped and fell into her bed. You chose this path, so own it.”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. My entire world is unraveling.
“I’ll pretend you’re still my best man tomorrow because I refuse to upset Fiona any further. But make no mistake, after the wedding, we’re done. And if you want to keep walking this earth, you’ll stay the hell away from Petra.”
He heads for the door, yanks it open, and pauses in the doorway.
“Your father’s right—you leaving Heartvest is the best move for this company. We don’t need someone who betrays the people he claims to care about. Enjoy your new gig with your old man. You’ll fill his CEO shoes perfectly.”
The door slams, and the truth swallows me whole. He’s right. I am my father.
***
Petra’sroomiswarm,as if the air has yet to realize she’s no longer here.
I throw the door closed and press my forehead against the cool wood, my breath coming in sharp bursts. The silence in here isn’t just quiet—it’s fuckingvindictive. Like every molecule of air knows I’m a worthless coward.
What the hell am I doing here?
I should be across the hall right now, playing the dutiful soon-to-be fiancé with Amanda. Discussing wedding venues andpretending my dick doesn’t go limp at the thought of touching anyone who isn’t Petra fucking Brinkman.
Instead, I’m clinging to the last remnants of her presence. If I stand here long enough, maybe—just maybe—I’ll hear her call me “Moneybags” one more time.
“You have no fucking idea what love is.”
Gavin’s words reverberate in my skull, each syllable a crushing weight on my shoulders. Maybe he’s right. Maybe what’s eating me alive isn’t love—it’s power. Control. Owning her like she’s my rich fuck-boy obsession.
But if that’s true, why does my chest feel like it’s been hollowed out with a rusty spoon? Why does the thought of never seeing her red lips curve into a smirk again make me want to demolish this entire goddamn estate with my bare hands?
I see the closet doors cracked open and move toward them in a trance.
Every single piece Sebastian Bellini selected for her is still there. Hanging in formation like a fashion graveyard.
She didn’t take any of it.Not the midnight Prada that made her look scandalous. The Valentino that hugged her curves so brazenly I nearly came in my pants. She could’ve sold any one of these pieces for six months’ rent.
But she didn’t. She walked away from it all. Because to her, this world of wealth and privilege is tainted.
She only wore these—for me. For the part I asked her to play. To try and belong in a place that did everything it could to spit her out. And worse—I let it happen. I held the door open for her transformation. Watched her wear my world’s expectations like astraightjacket. Not once did I tell her the version of her I loved didn’t need fixing.
My hand moves without permission, drawn to the crimson silk dress she wore that first night we made love. As it slips through my fingers, soft as sin, I swear I can feel her in it—her arched back, teasing words, hands in my hair, heartbeat against my palms.
That night she told me she preferred the man who wasn’t proper when he touched her. There were no games, no coyness, when she whispered, “I want you, Bryce.”
It was Petra, brave and burning, saying exactly what she wanted.
