Page 28 of Mexico Can Choke On It
And yet—here I sit.
I could’ve called. Texted. Sent a car service. Hell, I could’ve drafted a strongly worded email. But no. Here I am—camped out in my car across from the Broken Bottle, looking lessCEOand more two-bad-decisions-away from having my own TMZ headline.
And why?
Because apparently convincing Petra Brinkman to do one decent thing for her brother requires an intervention.
This isn’t abouther.
It’s about Gavin.
About cushioning the fallout I know is coming.
I’m here to get Petra on board. Convince her to agree to his Mexico wedding plan. Stabilize the situation before I upend it with my own bombshell—and walk away from the only real friendshipI’ve ever built. Before I disappear into the empire that’s been waiting to chain me to a gold desk since birth.
First, get Petra to Mexico.
Next, tell Gavin the truth.
Then, pray he won’t hate me for the rest of his life.
A simple, manageable sequence.
Still… I tap my thumb lightly against the steering wheel of my Aston Martin.Tap. Tap. Tap.If I’m being brutally honest—a habit I usually try to avoid—there’s a second reason.
Curiosity.
Dangerous, inconvenient curiosityabout the woman who turned another boring gala into a full-contact sport—who came and left like a human tornado in a room of marble statues.
I hold up the picture on my phone sent courtesy of my mother’s private security detail. It matches the vehicle I see parked on the street. They weren’t kidding about her rolling death trap. The driver’s door is held on by duct tape. The back left window is covered in plastic wrap. The trunk proudly displays:Choke On Itin spray paint with a giant pink penis.
Jesus, Pip.
Why does she insist on driving something so blatantly… subversive? Pride? Stubbornness? The perverse joy of knowing it makes people like me uncomfortable?
I could buy her a new vehicle. Have it delivered anonymously. One that’s sensible. Safe.
But I can already see how that would go. She’d track me down, those hazel-green eyes blazing with fury, and set the car on fire in my driveway to prove she doesn’t need handouts.
Heat rushes through my body at the mental image—Petra silhouetted by flames, defiant and wild and so goddamn gorgeous.
“Get a grip, Sterling.”
The bar door swings open. A group of guys spill out, laughing and shoving each other. One of them vomits into the gutter.Lovely.
Through the grimy windows, I catch occasional glimpses of my best friend’s sister behind the counter, slinging drinks with the same take-no-prisoners efficiency she applied to demolishing my family’s priceless antiques.
The sound of porcelain shattering echoes in my memory. Five hundred years of ancient Chinese artistry, reduced to dust beneath Petra’s combat boots.
And God help me, I’d found myself fighting back a smile.
Should I waltz in?Just march across those sticky floors and drag her out? That would go over well. Nothing says “do your brother a favor” like being dragged away from your workplace by a billionaire on a power trip.
Besides, one photo of me inside that establishment, and the headlines would write themselves.
Billionaire CEO Slumming It at Hollywood Hole in the Wall
Heir to Sterling Fortune Caught in Scandalous Night Out
