CHAPTER NINE #2
“What do you think about the stockholders’ first quarter projections?” Gavin asks.
“What?”
“I asked what you think.” His tone’s tight. Buttoned. “Which you would know if you’d listened to a single word I’ve said since we sat down.”
“I apologize,” I say, straightening my already straight tie. “I’ve been… distracted.”
“No shit.” Gavin’s eyes narrow with laser precision, his expression shifting into what his competitors call the “Brinkman Bullshit Detector.” “You’ve been off since we got to Mexico. What’s going on? And don’t tell me it’s nothing, because I’m not leaving this table until I drag it out of you.”
This is Gavin’s superpower: weaponized silence. He simply sits there, sharp hazel-green eyes locked on you—until your nerves snap and the truth spills out. Same eyes as Petra. Same ruthless tenacity.
Tell him the truth. In a matter of days, I’m leaving the company.
“Amanda moved out,” I say instead.
Gavin’s eyebrows shoot up. “As in, you’re over?”
I nod.
“When did this happen?”
“While I was in New York. I came home to an empty closet and a note.”
“And you’re just now telling me this?”
“It’s not exactly cocktail party conversation,” I explain, keeping my voice level. “She wanted a ring. I wasn’t prepared to give her one.”
“Let me get this straight. The woman who sat through sixteen hours of your mother’s Christmas gala planning, who learned golf just to join your father’s corporate tournaments, who basically ran your entire life for you… asked for a commitment—and you balked?”
When he puts it that way, I sound like a heartless cad. But he doesn’t understand how empty the relationship was, how it was built on mutual benefit rather than any genuine connection.
“That’s essentially correct.”
“Fucking hell, Bryce.” Gavin shakes his head. “No wonder you’ve been walking around like you swallowed a lemon. Does Sterling Senior know yet?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Well, that’ll be a fun conversation. ‘Sorry, Father, I’ve failed to fulfill item six on the Sterling heir checklist: acquire suitable breeding partner.’” His imitation of my voice is eerily accurate.
The mention of my dad sends a wave of discomfort through me. This is my chance. Time to rip off the Band-Aid. Tell him about Sterling Industries now, you coward. Just get it over with.
“Listen, I’m here for you.” he says, softening his voice. “I mean it. If you need anything, consider it done.”
I nod, throat tight. “Appreciate it. But you’ve got your hands full with the wedding. And I have Pip to keep me company.”
Gavin exhales, running a hand over his jaw. “I’m starting to worry that all this luxury and seeing the wealth gap firsthand is backfiring. The last thing I need is for her to rebel again, skip out on college, and decide slinging drinks in a dive bar is the life she actually wants.”
Something protective flares inside me. “She is making an effort to support you. I wouldn’t write her off quite yet.”
“Since when are you on Team Petra?” Gavin asks. “Yesterday, you looked ready to strangle her for picking up Miss Muffy. ”
“I’m not siding with Petra. I’m simply stating that being here can’t be easy for her.”
“I love my sister, but she’s got to finish that art degree, no matter how ridiculous it is. After that, I’ll make sure she gets an MBA and a real job. We can’t have her ending up like that pretentious artist, Echo. What kind of name is Echo, anyway?”
“An absurd one,” I agree, grateful for the subject change. “That entire spectacle last night was preposterous.”
“Total bullshit. And if being his muse means laying a finger on my sister, there’s gonna be a problem,“ he says. “But Fiona thinks it’s highbrow, so… she wants a Jackson Pollock burlesque show, she gets it. That’s the deal with marriage, right? Compromise.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” I reply dryly. “I wouldn’t worry about Petra. That girl’s a fighter. She’ll finish school and make you proud.”
“Let’s hope she doesn’t throw any real punches this week. Fiona’s been on edge about having her here. She’s convinced she’ll sabotage the wedding on purpose.”
“Petra would never. You know that.” The defense comes out more forcefully than I intended.
Gavin studies me for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right. She’d walk through fire for family. Even if she’s the one who lit the match.”
BUZZ! BUZZ!
Gavin’s phone lights up on the table.
“It’s Fiona. She’s set us up for a Vogue feature 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 nothing if 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 just split 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?
***
My balls are sweating. 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 me like 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.”
Relief washes over me. I remember this place from my childhood. Glass-walled, blissfully cold, and most importantly… vacant. The rich don’t come to Mexico to look at birds unless those birds are made of gold or willing to carry a tray of cocktails.
I round the corner ascending the small incline to the observatory—and stop.
She’s here.
Behind the pristine wraparound glass, Petra sits.
Perched cross-legged on a sleek bench, dressed like she’s heading into a corporate takeover, not a jungle trek. A pastel-blue Chanel skirt rides high on her thighs, paired with a boxy tweed jacket. Those damn sleeves hide the tattoos my tongue can’t stop fantasizing about .
I’m halfway to the door when I notice her holding binoculars—not aimed at the tropical birds fluttering through the canopy, but down at the trail below.
Curiosity flares. I follow her line of sight.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Echo.
Today’s outfit is a paisley fever dream.
His pants are so wide and flowy, I genuinely can’t tell if he’s wearing two colorful hammocks tied at the waist. A mesh tank top clings to his wiry frame like cobwebs revealing nipple piercings that nobody asked to see.
Beaded necklaces jangle as he moves, and topping it off? A goddamn beanie.
And sweet mother of— is he licking a tree?
Not a symbolic lick. No. This man is giving bark a full-on, open-mouthed, tongue-on-the-grain lick.
And now he’s… ugh.
He’s grinding on it.
Sweet hell, he’s giving the tree a lap dance.
“My artistic loins ignite with your ancient vibrations!” he proclaims.