Page 188 of Mexico Can Choke On It
As soon as Heartvest went public, it blew up. Stock prices shot through the roof, and suddenly everyone wanted a piece of the “rebel billionaire’s” investment app. Their user base doubled, then tripled, and then I stopped counting(because that many zeros makes my head hurt).Bryce and Gavin have been hiring people left and right, expanding faster than they thought possible.
It’s like watching someone build a rocket ship while riding it.
The media attention has been relentless, especially after Bryce’s very public middle finger to the Sterling Family empire. Turns out people prefer a good “choosing love over legacy” story, and Bryce unwittingly became the poster child for rejecting nepotism in favor of something meaningful.
The best part? Reginald Sterling has been suspiciously quiet. After his very public humiliation at our wedding, he slithered back to Manhattan and decidednotto retire. Bryce stayed on the Sterling Industries board, if only to keep the old man in check. It’s power, but subtle. Like a finger hovering over a detonate button labeled:Try Me, Bitch.
I do still wonder if Bryce will take over his family empire… someday. Maybe transform it into something that doesn’t just hoard wealth like a financial dragon. But for now, Bryce says he’s perfectly happy living without a five-, ten-, or even twenty-year plan. And honestly? Watching him discover who he is without someone else’s script has been better than any honeymoon.
As for Fiona…hoo boy.
Let’s say karma didn’t just knock on her door—it repossessed the mansion, torched the designer closet, and left a bag of flaming dog poop signed by“the poor girl.”
Turns out, being “American Royalty” doesn’t mean much in prison. She’s learning to make her own bed, do her own laundry, and eat food that’s all the same color. The girl who told me I was a “poor, white trash loser” is now literally picking up trash on the interstate.
And Marvin Grossman(yes, we all learned Echo’s real name)was giving art lessons in prison. Unfortunately, they were forgery lessons, so he scored himself another ten years.
I’d feel bad for them if I weren’t so busy enjoying the poetic justice.
Bryce lifts our joined hands to his lips and gently kisses the back of mine.
Between his insane work schedule and my class load, finding a place to live turned into a months-long nightmare. We ping-ponged between his sterile mansion and my shoebox apartment like nomadic newlyweds, living out of suitcases and pretending it was romantic(it wasn’t).
Bryce kept pushing Beverly Hills. He’d say, “Logical commute, safe neighborhood” and I’d reply with, “Snooty, boring, and hell tothe no.” My stubborn ass refused to surrender to zip code snobbery until…
“Waaa! Waaah!”
Untilshehappened.
Our three-month-old baby wails to life in the back seat like a tiny but mighty airhorn. I spin around and switch to mama-bear mode. There she is, my precious little storm: black hair, red-faced, and furious in her way-too-fancy car seat(designer, really?).
“Oh no, baby girl, what’s wrong?” I ask, reaching back to stroke her velvet-soft cheek.
I fish around for her pacifier—a simple pink one. Bryce wanted a diamond-encrusted binky, but I can be pretty persuasive when I threaten his vajayjay privileges. Our baby glares with ice-blue eyes, but then she slowly latches on with a pouty grunt. Blessed silence fills the vehicle.
“Tell Mommy she’s a superstar for finishing college, Ruby,” Bryce coos in his special baby-doting voice.
I snort. “Daddy should know by now that Ruby only cares about one thing. Mommy’s boobs.”
“We’ve had in-depth discussions,” he says, eyes twinkling. “And we’re both heavily invested in the boobs department.”
“Should Daddy drive his absurdly expensive car around the block again so Baby Empress can finish her nap?”
Ruby grunts.
“That’s a yes. Make it snappy, Moneybags.”
He signals left. “Already turning.”
Neither of us was evenslightlyinterested in protection after “I do.” We got pregnant instantly(and I mean instantly). Turns out a hurricane of unprotected newlywed sex was no match for my birthcontrol.Later—after I stopped throwing up daily—Bryce admitted he secretly hoped I’d get pregnant that night we made love on the beach.
He got what he wished for. Our little Ruby.
If everyone thought our lightning-fast wedding was shocking, the pregnancy announcement made their heads explode. His mother needed smelling salts when we dropped the news.
Bryce chose our daughter’s name, and honestly, I melted when he told me why. Ruby—after my ruby ring and the red shade of my lips; the color that’s apparently burned into his soul.
“She’s going to be twice the handful you are,” he whispers.
