Page 25 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Disappear?” I smile sweetly. “Same.”
Fiona chuckles—a tinkling, practiced sound. “You always made me laugh.”
“Aw. That’s the nicest way I’ve ever been called a punchline.”
“I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be marrying your brother. He’s the love of my life. And that means you’re… well, you’re part of that too.”
I tilt my head. “Right. Like that sprig of rosemary on your dinner plate—technically food, but everyone knows it’s pointless and should be ignored.”
“I sense you’re skeptical, but I’ve changed. I’m not that girl anymore. More than anything, I’d like us to be friends.”
“Friends? You’re kidding, right? You switched my senior yearbook quote to ‘Live. Laugh. Lube.’ You announced over the morningintercom that my hair was ‘bravely resisting shampoo.’ Don’t even get me started when you told the school counselor I—”
“That’s enough.” Gavin’s voice drops an octave, signaling his warning. “Fiona has apologized—more than once. I want you two to get along. You’re both my girls.”
“Ooh, I have the most wonderful idea! We should do a spa day—getting pampered with gold-leaf manicures, sake baths, stem cell facial treatments, and some deep tissue bonding.”
“Great idea,” Gavin says, kissing her temple. “You’re incredible. Always thinking of others.”
Yeah, she’s a real patron saint of passive-aggressive revenge.
The moment Fiona is done pitching herspa day trap, the sitting room door swings open. In waltzes Judith Sterling-Holloway, Bryce’s mother and Beverly Hills’ reigning queen of judgment. Her silver hair is swept into a complicated updo. Not a strand dares to misbehave. She’s wrapped in a gown the color of midnight, and a constellation of diamonds drips from her ears and neck.
I dive behind an oversized potted palm and nearly take out a porcelain vase. From behind the fronds, I check for sniper dots once more.Phew. Still clear.
Through the greenery, I spy Bryce—standing next to his mother, his expression unreadable, his posture impeccable. The Sterling family portrait of perfection, framed by the doorway’s gilded molding.
“Fiona, darling,” Judith’s voice slices through the air—sharp as a paper cut but somehow melodic. “Having your wedding at Casa Cashmere? Howthrilling!”
“Sadly, Gavin might cancel because of work.”
“Nonsense.” The ice in her martini tinkles as she waves her hand dismissively. “Gavin, you’re the CEO. You make the rules—everyone else falls in line. That’s how power works.”
I glance at Gavin, whose jaw is clenched so hard, the air pressure in the room has shifted.
Until now, I’ve never wanted to punch an old lady in the throat before.
“Besides, you do NOT turn down an invitation from Miss Muffy Von Cashmere. That’s social suicide. People waityearsjust to apply for the chance to be rejected.”
“That’s what I told him,” Fiona says, nodding.
“Bryce, darling. You remember when we took you there for your eighth birthday?”
“Yes, Mother. The bird-watching observatory was particularly educational.”
Judith takes a delicate sip of her martini. “Bryce wanted a silly carnival. Hot dogs, face painting, bumper cars… Can you imagine? But then I got the invitation to Casa Cashmere from Muffy herself, and well. We weren’t going to pass up that opportunity.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
That quiet, steady tapping starts again, his finger brushing his thigh like he’s trying to ground himself. A blinking light that says something’s wrong. Most people miss it, but I’ve learned how to spot it. I feel it in my chest before I even see it.
I’m picturing eight-year-old Bryce, dreaming of cotton candy and carousel rides and then getting dragged to some snooty billionaire compound.
Did he ever get that carnival?
Did someone at least let him eat a hot dog?
The thought gives me an odd disappointment. Like when you find an old toy still in the box that never got played with.
