CHAPTER FIFTEEN #3
Coming home to Amanda was like entering a museum: sterile and lifeless.
I’d find her organizing flowers or consulting with the chef about menus, every conversation centered on our social schedule or her newest charity committee.
I never felt a spark of anticipation with Amanda.
From the beginning, she was something I selected, like a mutual fund.
Petra is something I crave.
It’s more than infatuation, I’m gone for her. This woman who argues with billionaires and tasers men in tuxedos. I’m addicted to her chaos.
When this ends, I’ll spend the rest of my life comparing every kiss, every touch, every connection to what I had with her. Nothing else will come close. How the hell can I go back to my life after this?
Keep her.
The words slip into my brain.
Petra Brinkman isn’t the type of woman who gets kept . She’s not going to host charity luncheons or smile demurely at board dinners while I discuss mergers and acquisitions. She’d tear down the foundation of my world just to watch the rich people panic.
And I’d let her .
Jesus Christ, I am in trouble.
BZZZZ. BZZZZ.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and I actually snarl when I see the name glowing on the screen.
Reginald Sterling.
“Perfect timing,” I mutter.
Now he calls me back. The second I start envisioning a future with Petra in my life, my home, my bed.
I answer, and my voice slips into the polished tone that’s been programmed into me since childhood.
“Father.”
“Explain this nonsense about you and Amanda being over?”
No preamble. No pleasantries. Straight to the inquisition, as always.
“I’d expect you to have the foresight to inform me before you burn your most crucial personal alliance to the ground. But clearly, I overestimated.”
“That’s not why I called you earlier.”
“You phoned to confirm I leaked those boardroom whispers,” he says with that familiar edge of cruelty. “You know the answer. Consider the rumors a warning shot. I don’t fuck around, son.”
“Understood, sir.” I force steadiness into my voice and will my nerves to behave. “I believed we had an understanding that Heartvest is navigating crucial territory right now. The IPO timing—”
“Heartvest ceased being your responsibility the moment you signed the Sterling succession papers. Accept that truth, or I’ll force your hand with a public announcement at dawn. ”
Heat floods my face while my hands turn numb.
My throat constricts, as though someone’s tightening a noose, and suddenly the tropical Mexican air feels suffocating.
Sweat breaks out across my forehead, and my vision starts to tunnel the way it did when I was twelve and he’d corner me in his office after some perceived failure.
My index finger begins its involuntary staccato against my leg.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Amanda’s waiting for your reconciliation call. Since both our families have kept your little breakup fiasco under wraps, we won’t have to contain any fallout.”
The words stick in my throat. “No. We ended our relationship. It was mutual—”
“Mutual?” His laugh is sharp. “That’s a generous interpretation. From what I heard, it was classic Bryce Sterling—unable to honor his commitments. Predictable and disappointing.”
The blow lands exactly where he intended. He knows my weak spots better than a surgeon understands anatomy, and he never misses.
A Sterling always honors his commitments.
The family mantra sounds noble. But it really means: no way out.
“Your mother is livid,” he continues. “Amanda is the ideal starter wife and future mother of your children. She checks every box—elegant, obedient, and built to bear heirs. She’s been vetted and approved for the Sterling bloodline. You don’t discard an asset like that.”
My finger drums faster on my leg, beyond my control.
“Amanda will accompany you to New York,” he declares with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “Your personal preferences are irrelevant. This is about Sterling legacy, about our empire that employs thousands and influences global markets.”
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Enough with this dream life you picked up playing entrepreneur in Los Angeles. Real life doesn’t accommodate fairy tales, son. This family name transcends our personal desires and will outlive us both. A Sterling leads Sterling Industries—that’s always been your destiny.”
I swallow hard, tasting copper. “What if… there was another woman? Someone who—”
“You have a woman in mind who can match Amanda’s pedigree, social positioning, and readiness to produce offspring immediately? Because you’re behind on that requirement too, son.”
An image of Petra flashes through my mind—those rebellious eyes that never surrender, that mouth that tells the world exactly where it can go. She’s not just the opposite of Amanda. She’s the opposite of everything I was bred for.
And that’s the problem.
She’d laugh in my face if I asked her to play house and raise heirs. She’s made her stance on kids clear: not for her. Especially not with a man like me. And she’d never, not in a million years, wear the Sterling name as a collar.
But damn it… I wish she would.
“Quit wasting my time and get your ass to New York,” he snaps. “I don’t give a damn about your pet project. If I wanted to destroy it, I could. Don’t test me, or I will bury your little startup so deep, nobody will remember it existed.”
My blood turns to slush in my veins. When my father employs that razor-edged tone, it means the execution plan’s already drafted. He doesn’t bluff—he strategizes, then annihilates.
“That Brinkman boy keeps creating headaches for me,” he continues. “I should have put my foot down when you wanted to drag that charity case along for your Ivy League experience. Stop showing weakness. Be the man I raised you to be.”
My chest caves inward. There’s no escape route from this conversation, no clever maneuvering—only surrender. But I can salvage what Gavin and I built together. I can protect the sixty million people who trusted us with their financial futures, the families learning to invest for the first time.
Petra flickers in my mind, but it’s hopeless. She was never mine to have.
“I’ll do what you ask, on one condition. You delay announcing my CEO transition until Heartvest’s IPO completes successfully.”
“I’ll expect a wedding ceremony within thirty days and confirmation of your first pregnancy by Christmas,” he counters without hesitation. “No more delays. You secure what you want, and I collect what I’m owed.”
“Yes, Father. I understand. We’re in agreement.”
“Smart choice, son.”
The line goes dead.
My phone drops, hitting marble with a sickening crack. I collapse onto the bed’s edge, pressing both palms against my skull, hard enough to make it all disappear for half a second.
But it never does .
I push up. Start pacing. Five steps to the minibar. Back again. The air feels too thick, as though I’m walking through water and every breath is a fight.
I go to the drink cart. Grab the decanter of scotch. No ice. Just a hard pour and a harder swallow. It scalds all the way down, exactly the punishment I deserve.
One more pour. This time, I don’t drink it. Instead, I march to the balcony, the crystal tumbler clutched tightly in my hand. And I throw it.
CRASH!
The sound of the glass hitting the tile below shatters the peaceful silence.
My fingers claw through my hair, tugging with enough force to sting. Then I scream. Loud and broken. A sound I didn’t know I was capable of making. Years of buried rage breaking loose.
Wetness flows down my cheeks. I haven’t shed tears since I was old enough to understand they were weakness. But tonight, my body rebels, against a lifetime of emotional imprisonment. Against the crushing weight of a destiny I never wanted.
Why did I let myself believe for one second that I could choose a different path? How could I be so delusional?
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Fuck. Petra’s here.
I scrub at my face, eyes swollen and raw. I run a hand through the mess on my head, trying to tame it. I cross the room and square my shoulders. I’ll tell her I’m sick. I’ll send her away. I can’t let her see me like this.
The door swings open to reveal Petra clutching a silver ice bucket, her robe cinched tight around her waist, mischief in her smile .
“You ready for your torture, Money—” Her smile drops. “What’s wrong?”
“Stomach issues.”
“Bullshit.” Her eyes narrow, studying my expression. “I know you. Something’s wrong.”
She knows me?
No one knows me—not the real me. I’ve built walls smooth enough to reflect, tall enough to defend—yet she walked right through them like they weren’t even there.
How?
Without waiting for permission, she pushes past me into the suite, setting down the ice. The door clicks shut as she reaches for my hand.
It’s shaking.
She doesn’t flinch. She just laces our fingers together and pulls me toward the bed.
“Sit, B,” she says with gentle authority. “Tell me what’s wrong. How I can help?”
Everything in me wants to confess—my future’s been sold, my company’s being used as leverage, and I agreed to marry someone else tonight in order to protect my best friend.
But admitting the truth means revealing how powerless I am.
“Let me get lost in you,” I whisper, hating myself for the selfish plea. “Please.”
Her answer comes without hesitation—a single nod that destroys me.
Silently, she surrenders, parting her robe to reveal delicate black lace that steals my breath. I squeeze her hips and pull her close as we sink back onto the mattress. My mouth and hands explore her, and the suite fills with the symphony of her soft moans.
I drown in her. In her taste. Her sounds. Her body.
In everything I want and can never have.