Page 75 of Mexico Can Choke On It
BUZZ! BUZZ!
Gavin’s phone lights up on the table.
“It’s Fiona. She’s set us up for aVoguefeature interview.“ He sighs. “Maybe one day my headline won’t be ‘Poor kid from Beverly Hills makes it big.’ It’ll be about the work I do. The company. The damn vision instead of the ‘rags-to-riches’ angle they’re all so fucking obsessed with.”
As he stands to leave, his expression falters, certainty slipping to reveal a glimpse of something I rarely see: vulnerability.
“I’m not the superstitious type. You know that.”
“Of course.”
“But I’ve got this feeling. A bad one.”
Does he suspect the truth? Did my father already tell him?
“About the IPO,” he continues. “I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right. Maybe we’re rushing it? Maybe there’s a blind spot? The market’s unstable or the valuation’s bloated? You’ve told me horror stories—your dad spending more time calming shareholders than running the business.”
That lands hard.
Gavin has forever been the visionary, the one with unwavering faith in our mission. To see him in doubt now, when I’m about to pull the rug out from under him, makes me feel like the worst kind of traitor.
“There’s always a cost when a company goes public,” I say carefully, “but any failure won’t be due to our lack of preparedness.” I force a smile. “Besides, you’re aiming for equal footing, right? Once we go public, I won’t be the only billionaire.”
“It’s hard to believe,” he admits. “I… I don’t want this change to take away from our customers. The second we prioritize shareholders over users, we’re another soulless finance app.”
Pride swells in my chest, quickly followed by crushing guilt. This isn’t only about me abandoning our company—I’m leaving behind the best part of myself. The version of me that believed in something beyond money for money’s sake.
Gavin is more than a friend. He’s my conscience. My moral compass. He reminds me daily that wealth means nothingif it isn’t used to help others. Sterling Industries may have my name etched into its marble entrance, but my family’s company will never have Gavin’s passion, his fire, his absolute conviction that financial security should be a right, not a privilege.
BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!
“Duty calls.” He steps away, then pauses. “And hey—thanks again for staying glued to Petra. I understand she’s… a handful.But there’s nobody I trust more.”
I nod, unable to speak past the knot of self-loathing lodged in my throat.
He walks off, totally unaware he justsplit me open.
Which betrayal is worse? The cowardice that keeps me from telling my best friend I’m disowning everything we built together?
Or my burning desire to cross a line with his sister?
***
Myballsaresweating.And I don’t mean metaphorically. This is full-on, ball soup sweltering.
Moisture trickles down my spine, collecting in the waistband of my boxers. My white dress shirt has gone transparent, plastered against my chest like shrink wrap. Every step releases another droplet down my temple.
“Good God. I’m being slow-roasted in Italian wool,” I mutter, yanking at my tie.
I should go back to my room. Shower, change, and lie to myself about having self-control before, once again, finding relief with my hand and visions of Petra.
Instead, I keep walking.
Because after the conversation I had with Gavin—where he told me he trusted melike family—I need space. Room to breathe. Somewhere quiet to pull myself together and pretend I’m not mentally undressing his sister every five goddamn minutes.
I venture deeper into the jungle, following the dirt path that’s shaded by a canopy of tangled vines and swaying palms. Every few steps, I pass a leaf the size of a Prius. The rainforest is humming—a cacophony of unseen creatures, rustling leaves, and distant water. The scent of damp earth hangs thick in the air.
Mosquitos buzz in a halo above my head as though I’m some kind of overpriced blood smoothie. My Italian loafers crunch over gravel and roots, and then I spot it—a wooden sign half-strangled by creeping vines and dense foliage: “Bird Watching Observatory.”
