Page 50 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the one who lured me here and won’t let me wear my combat boots to defend myself. If I die from a spider crawling into my panties, you better avenge me.”
“Rest assured, I will instruct my assistant to attend to that.”
“Outsourcing the job? Damn, B. I thought I meant more to you.”
Petra shoots me a wink before glancing back at the coastline. “So what’s the deal with this place we’re headed to? Why does everyone gasp like they spotted Taylor Swift shopping at Target?”
“Casa Cashmere is invitation-only. A gathering place for the ultra-elite.”
“How elite? Like, private-island elite, or we-secretly-run-the-world elite?”
“Both. It’s a playground with absolute privacy. When I visited as a boy, they had an ice rink, movie theater, bowling alley, spa, cigar room, Olympic-sized indoor pool, bird-watching observatory—”
“Wait. A room just to stare at birds? What, regular windows weren’t boujee enough? God forbid you spot a macaw without climate control.”
Her eyes sparkle with a challenge, daring me to justify the ways of the affluent.
“The estate was built by a British aristocrat as a winter retreat from England. Somewhere to entertain guests without—”
The words die in my throat when I see it.
Casa Cashmere.
“Holy fuck, B! That’s not a house. That’s a… I mean… look at the size of that thing. That’s some serious supervillain lair shit.”
It rises out of the wilderness like it doesn’t belong to this era—or planet. White limestone and Spanish tile and sunlit archways, perched arrogantly on a jungle-covered hilltop that rolls all the way down to the ocean. The main house alone could swallow a city block. Twin bell towers anchor the corners while endless balconies and terraces cascade down the façade.
At least twenty additional buildings share formal gardens that stretch in engineered elegance. Their manicured hedges and marble fountains form an absurd contrast to the wild jungle pressing in on all sides.
From this angle, you can see the plank extending down to a private dock—where a superyacht waits, lazy and hulking, as if it owns the sea. Surrounded by 150 acres of untamed jungle and coastline, the nearest hint of civilization is miles away from this paradise cove.
“It’s just as majestic as I remember.”
“Wow! There’s only one kind of money that builds a hidden jungle palace with a yacht docked in the front yard. Oil.”
I nod. “The Von Cashmeres made their fortune in oil. At their peak in the late 1800s, they controlled twenty percent of global reserves.”
She whistles. “Not bad. But don’t be jealous, Moneybags. The prestige of your family name wins. You’ve got buildings named after you in every major city, and your family personally sends me a ‘Heygirl, your credit card is maxed out’ letter every month. I feel special.Like getting scolded by a rich king of finance.”
My spine stiffens.
“I guess someday you’ll be the king sending me those ‘you’ve been a bad girl’ letters, huh?”
The observation hits like ice water as we descend toward the landing pad—a concrete circle surrounded by grass so green it seems spray-painted. The helicopter touches down, and before the rotors even slow, a small army materializes. Staff in crisp white uniforms swarm as we exit in a well-choreographed ballet.
“Refreshment, Mr. Sterling?” a server asks with a silver tray balanced on his palm, crystal glasses catching sunlight like prisms. Pink liquid swirls inside, dotted with fresh strawberries and mint sprigs. Another attendant offers warm, lavender-scented hand towels, while a third snaps open a white umbrella above our heads, shielding us from the Mexican sun.
I accept a towel, demonstrating the ritual for Petra’s benefit—wipe hands, fold neatly, return to tray. Then I take the drink, nodding my thanks.
“Are you kidding me?” Petra stage-whispers, mimicking my actions with dramatic flair. “There’s etiquette for washing your hands? Where’s the guidebook for blinking correctly?”
She finishes with a mock curtsy, and I notice one of the male attendants letting his gaze linger on her cleavage, enhanced by her tailored vest. Something hot and territorial flares inside me.
Keep your focus, Bryce. You succeeded in getting her here, but the real task is helping her to fit in.
Petra may be dressed the part in her designer clothes, but she’s still Petra—unfiltered, unimpressed by wealth, unafraid to ask questions that make people squirm.
