Page 57 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Let me guess—you’re mad I didn’t curtsy before causing a scene in front of your country-club cult and their four-legged dictator. Don’t worry. I got the message loud and clear.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Regret? Frustration?Who cares.
“That’s not what I—”
“Save it.” I brush past him without slowing. “You’ve made it clear I’m an embarrassment.”
“Let me escort you to dinner.”
“As charming as that sounds, hard pass on your escort service.” I’m already walking away. Fast. Determined.
“Petra, wait—”
I don’t look back.
Bryce Sterling isn’t my concern. Gavin is. And he deserves to know what I just witnessed.
***
Istormdownthemain hallway, a woman on a mission. The waiting area outside the formal dining room is next-level luxurious—marble floors polished to an ice-rink sheen, chandeliers dripping like diamond waterfalls, and the distinct scent of money, which I guess is the smell of fresh flowers and furniture polish.
Somewhere in the distance, a harp is playing.
Because of course it is.
All I want tonight is to stay ten football fields away from Bryce and figure out what the hell Gavin’s shady, fake-ass fiancée was doing with that wannabe pirate.
I scan the crowd of guests—each one glammed up and chatting in designer evening wear. I spot my brother’s coiffed dark-brown hair near a massive floral arrangement. He looks every inch the financial titan in his tailored Tom Ford tuxedo.
“Hey bro. Where’s Fiona?” I ask, tugging at my bodice as I sidle up to him.
Gavin turns, champagne flute in hand. “Had something to attend to. She’ll be down soon.” His eyebrows lift, amused. “That’s… quite a gown, Wildcat.”
“I look like a marshmallow had a baby with a lampshade.”
I straighten my spine, ready to drop my bombshell. My mind races through possible openers:
Option 1: Blunt-force truth bomb.“Hey, Gav, your bride-to-be is cheating. Not a hunch. Not a maybe. I saw her with my own eyes. Surprise! I was right.”
Option 2: Casually unhinged.“Okay, quick question, and I swear I’m not trying to start a wedding fire—but is Fiona, by chance,supposed to be seducing dudes in flower gardens like some Real Horny Housewife?”
Option 3: The slow burn.“Remember when I told you Fiona was evil? Well, Satan called, and he wants his handmaiden back.”
Before I can decide between sarcasm or scorched-earth honesty, Gavin cuts in.
“The dog incident was unfortunate, but let’s move past it.”
“I didn’t know it was their furry overlord. There wasn’t exactly a sign saying ‘Do not touch: canine billionaire.’”
“Petra.” There’s that tone—half exasperation, half grudging affection. “You need to—”
“Gavin, I must apologize.” Bryce’s smooth voice interrupts from behind me. “I failed to properly brief her on the protocols here. I’ll make sure she understands what’s expected moving forward.”
As Bryce stands beside me, his arm brushes mine—a hot whisper of contact that lights me up. I’m turned on, off-balance, and pissed about it. My body goes into fight-or-flirt mode, and I choose fight.
“That won’t be necessary, Moneybags. I’m a big girl. I can navigate rich-people nonsense on my own.”
Gavin sighs, giving me theyou’re-being-difficult-againface. “This isn’t your world, sis. Let Bryce help you.”
