Page 54 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Katie:Please don’t become an international fugitive.
Petra:At this point, prison might be the safer option.
I FONDLED A BILLIONAIREMaltese in front of half the Forbes list. How is that a thing? What kind of upside-down elite world have I stepped into? Pocket cookies are a crime, but some crazy old broad can leave her entire fortune to a dog?
Right now, I’m hunched over a tufted bench in the bathroom, grunting as I try to hook sixty-two microscopic demon-clasps along the spine of this dress. My fingers are useless—like I’m defusing abomb in oven mitts. Every time I fasten one, another pops open.Shit!
This dress is a catastrophe. Dusty rose ruffles, gauzy layers—like someone turned a wedding cake into a gown. Strapless. Puffy. A-line. And the leg slit? It goes up to places my gynecologist explores annually. The corset top is so tight, I’ll be coughing up a lung before the shrimp cocktail hits the table.
“Fucking pink. Sebastian, you vindictive fashion tyrant.”
These hooks aren’t having it. I drop my arms, gasping as though I’ve lost a wrestling match.
“Hair down it is.” I yank the curls out of their clip and let them tumble over my shoulders, covering the back of the dress.
I collapse onto the mattress and take a moment to acknowledge the room I’ve been stomping around in for the last half hour.
It’s obscene.
The suite is a clash of cultures so absurd, it somehow works—European grandeur meets Mexican coastal chic. Soaring ceilings with exposed dark-wood beams and whitewashed walls, and big-ass arched windows framing panoramic views of lush jungle and sparkling ocean.
French doors lead to a private balcony. The bathroom is a marble shrine where rich people worship their own naked reflections—complete with an exhibitionist tub facing a wide, uncurtained window.
“Because nothing says ‘I’m wealthy’ like flashing your fun bits to passing toucans.”
Inside the walk-in closet, my new wardrobe has beenMarie Kondo’dinto submission. Each outfit hangs on its own velvet hanger with a laminated cue card featuring instructions.
I snatch the note from tonight’s selection, reading aloud in my best snooty Sebastian accent:
To Miss Brinkman, My Most Challenging Project:
It has become PAINFULLY clear that, left to your own devices, you would pair Versace with gym socks and strut like it’s revolutionary. This. CANNOT. Happen. Not on my watch. Karl Lagerfeld would claw his way out of hell and slap us both in the face. I have therefore taken the liberty of providing toddler-level instructions. Follow them PRECISELY. These notes are your style defibrillator—use them or die in pleats. Your wardrobe rehabilitation is my cross to bear.
—Sebastian Bellini. Fashion Savior. Miracle Worker. Long-suffering saint.
“Understood. A subway rat in a designer gown is still a subway rat.”
My mind recalls the scolding from Butler Lord Britchybottom and how Bryce’s voice was tight with embarrassment as he apologized.
“Miss Brinkman’s not accustomed to Casa Cashmere’s protocols,” he’d said. “This is her first exposure to… this level of society.”
What the fuck am I doing?
I’ve been throwing myself at Bryce—an engaged man—who clearly sees me as nothing more than an embarrassing obligation.
Every eyebrow raise?
Polite discomfort.
Every moment I felt special?
Damage control.
He’s Bryce freaking Sterling. And I’m Gavin’s little sister—aka the problem to be managed.
God, I’ve been acting stupid. Whatever this twisted thing is, it ends now.No more fantasy. No more flirting. I’m not here for him. I’m here for Gavin.
I’m going to help my brother survive his wedding to Miss Satan in stilettos. To prove, for once, that I can show up and shut up. That I’m able to hold my own in a world that never wanted me in the first place.
