Page 9 of Mexico Can Choke On It
The disappointment in his voice makes my stomach twist. “I’m trying, okay? Iswear.”
“I didn’t bring you on to be your babysitter, Petra.”
“It was an accident.”
“I want to see you win. I wouldn’t have crafted this plan if I didn’t see your potential. But you need to step up, believe in yourself, and take this seriously.”
MWARP! MWARP! MWARP!
Shit!My meter alarm. I slap at my phone blindly.
“Is there something more pressing than this discussion?”
“Nope.”
“Good. I need you to head to Harry Winston and retrieve the custom cufflinks Fiona commissioned. The gala tonight at Bryce’s mother’s is very important to her, so I want everything to be flawless.”
The name hits me like a slap across the face.
Fiona.As in Fiona Whitfield.
My brother’s future wife. My former high school tormentor.
A slideshow of humiliations flashes through my brain like a horror movie marathon:
Fiona, in homeroom, whispering(at full volume)that my mom cleans her toilets.
Fiona telling the entire school I was pregnant—twins, apparently—with the janitor’s babies.
Fiona organizing “Poor Petra Day” on my sixteenth birthday—a theme where everyone at school showed up in ripped clothes, dirt on their faces, and the team mascot gathered money in a glittery donation jar labeled:Help the Less Fortunate (Like Petra).
Sometimes I wonder if she put some kind of rich-girl voodoo spell on my brother, because the Gavin I know wouldn’t willingly choose Satan as a life partner.
“You’re making that face again,” he says.
“What face?”
“That expression you make every time I mention my fiancée. Fiona is not the same person she was in high school. People change.”
“True. She’s upgraded her nose and has clearly perfected her gaslighting technique.”
MWARP! MWARP! MWARP!
I toss Gavin a salute and pivot toward the door.
“No face. No problem. Just very, very concerned about cufflink logistics.”
Gavin yells as I run down the hall, “Work on theface. In two months, she’ll be family. Make an effort.”
The elevator takes forever. My head is spinning with visions of Bryce in a tux at that ritzy gala tonight. The one at his mother’s house—a soirée I’d never be invited to, not in this lifetime.
Forget Bryce. Forget Fiona. Focus on the mission. Get the damn cufflinks. Don’t get fired.
I scramble out of the building when—
NO! No no no no no.
My car isbeing towed.
