Page 164 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Me.
And I gave it to her.
I made her moan my name until her voice gave out. Pressed her into the mattress and worshipped every inch of her. Told her she was extraordinary, all the while knowing I was going to leave her.
Where was my spine to fight for her?
I stood there while my father called her a whore and Gavin glared like I’d just kicked his sister into traffic.
Jesus. I’m a fucking monster.
Something flutters from the dress like a dying moth—a cream-colored notecard with “SB” embossed in gold.
My hands shake as I read the venomous script:
Miss Brinkman—This dress requires serious architectural support given your… limitations. Enclosed undergarments are mandatory. Additionally, professional hair management is crucial—your current situation resembles a trash panda more than a dinner guest. Kindly do not humiliate Mr. Sterling’s investment in your appearance.
—Sebastian Bellini, Wardrobe Wizard
The paper crumples in my fist so hard my knuckles go bone-white. But there are more cards scattered on the closet floor like landmines. I grab another one, then another, my horror multiplying with each poisonous line:
Your excessive tattoos are inappropriate for polite society. Concealment is mandatory.
Avoid discussing your… origin story with legitimate guests. Silence is your most flattering accessory.
The provided body shapers will create the illusion of proper birthing hips. Wear them.
Each line drips with disdain—designed to chip away at her confidence and remind her she doesn’t belong.
A godforsaken pile of them.
And she read every single one.
She stood in front of this pretentious mirror, covered in chiffon and judgement, and tried to make herself smaller. More palatable. Less… her.
All for me.
I rip up the notes, stumble out of the closet, my knees buckling, and collapse onto her empty bed.
I fed her to the wolves with a fucking bow tied around her neck.
She still chose me. She still fought. Still smiled. Still wore the dress and played the part and stood beside me when the whole fucking world tried to tear her down.
Petra Brinkman loved me with her whole damn heart.
And I broke it.
Twice.
Gavin’s right. I don’t know what love is. Because if I loved her, I would have told everyone to go to hell in that rehearsal tent. I wouldhave grabbed Petra’s hand and walked out with her, consequences be damned.
She wanted the man behind the Sterling mask. The real me. The one who fumbled through real feelings and made unholy sounds when her mouth touched my skin. The guy who forgot what shame was when he was inside her.
And I gave her that man for a few stolen nights, then let my father slip the leash back on me like I’d never strayed.
The engagement ring is a lead weight in my jacket. Thirty-five carats of family duty that I’ll slide onto Amanda’s finger tomorrow while cameras flash and my soul shrivels. I’ll do it because Sterlings don’t break tradition. We sacrifice our hearts on the family altar and call it honorable.
Petra will be back in LA. Hopefully covering up that broken heart tattoo I gave her. If there’s any justice in this cruel, fucked-up world, she’ll finally realize loving me was the worst decision she ever made.
