Page 44 of Mexico Can Choke On It
I’m whisked straight to the dressing room and crammed into something infinitely worse—a pastel pink romper with satin bows that must have been designed by a five-year-old going through her princess phase.
“Whoever designed this genuinely hates women,” I announce, yanking at the hem to dislodge the perpetual camel toe. “Why does this screamcostume for a grown man with a doll fetish?”
Sebastian’s jaw drops in horror, and all the color drains from his face so fast, I briefly wonder if he’s having a stroke.
“DESTROY that ABERRATION! Burn it and scatter the ashes across different continents so it can never reassemble!”
“We do have a schedule to keep,” Bryce reminds him with controlled authority. “The jet is waiting, and there’s a welcome dinner to attend.”
“This creature descended upon us with the fashion sense of a Walmart parking lot at three a.m., and I am tasked with transforming her into Casa Cashmere-worthy splendor in a few hours!” Sebastian exhales dramatically. “TRUST the PROCESS! I have never failed, and I will not blemish my legacy on this day!”
I take advantage of their back-and-forth to scratch furiously at my inner thigh, where the romper has left an angry red welt.
An assistant tiptoes over with something clutched between two fingers as though she’s carrying nuclear waste.
It’s… my bra.
“Oh sweet Dior above, what is this monstrosity? My eyes! They’re melting.”
“It’s fine. It does the thankless job of holding up my boobs.”
He snaps, ignoring me. “La Perla! One of EVERYTHING! Bras, panties, slips, garters, silk, lace, mesh, divine intervention—GO! Fetch me a goddamn miracle, stat!”
I glance at Bryce, expecting him to be mortified by this intimate garment discussion, but he appears absorbed in his phone, thumb scrolling.
Then, without looking up, he says, “Include red.”
The blush that starts at my hairline travels south with alarming speed.
Bryce hasopinionsabout my underwear?
“Excellent suggestion, Mr. Sterling. Back into the wardrobe chamber, Miss Brinkman!”
I trudge into the fitting room, where they force a nightmare of a dress over my head. When I see it, my breath catches—for all the wrong reasons. It’s loud, yellow, ruffled, and did I mention loud?
One shoulder. Eight million ruffles. So much satin that it actually makesswish-swishnoises.
“No! CATASTROPHIC! Escape while you can!
“I’m done!”swish-swish-swish“Where’s my taser?”
“Your rage will not shield you from your poor style choices.”
I’m ushered away too soon—robbed of my chance to unleash a decent comeback.
But then I see it. Hanging apart from the rejects is a long, sleek, crimson halter dress that oozes liquid sex. I put it on, adjust the straps, and take a breath.
The neckline is high, elegant, and the cutouts offer an enticing glimpse of side boob. The back is completely open, swooping low and giving a peek of my hip tattoo. I step out, and the entire room goes silent.
“Call VOGUE! Inform the internet that Sebastian Bellini has triumphedagainwith his unparalleled genius!”
My gaze stays locked on Bryce ashissweeps up my body, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver down my spine. For a breath, his mask slips, and I catch a flash of something primal woven into his stare before he reins it back in.
“Yes, we’ll take that one,” he says, his voice a touch deeper than usual. Then, as if nothing happened, he returns to his phone.
But thattap-tap-tapof his finger against his thigh tells a different story.
After the red dress breakthrough, everything Sebastian puts me in justworks—white rompers, ivory power suits, champagne silk tunics with wide-leg trousers that somehow makecomfortablepass as couture.
