CHAPTER NINETEEN #3
“A truly remarkable specimen—much like the lady it was meant to honor. Rare gems like this, with such richness of color and depth of character, are the kind a gentleman encounters but once in his lifetime.”
My jaw locks up tight. “I understand your meaning. You act like I had a choice in letting her go.”
“I have spent my life in service and watched the wealthy crush the spirits of many extraordinary individuals. That young woman should not have been added to the list. Not on my watch. Not on yours.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to have everything and still feel powerless. You think I want to be the heir imprisoned in a boardroom?”
“The way I see it, sir, is simple. You’re deliberately closing the prison door on yourself.”
Anger spikes through my chest like lightning. “Don’t lecture me about freedom, Nigel. You’ve never had to make a choice like this. Both options end in someone you love getting destroyed. You think I wanted this? You think I chose to hurt her?”
“I believe you think you’re choosing honor. But all I see is a man polishing his chains and calling them a crown.”
“That is too far, Nigel. You are out of line.”
Nigel drops the ruby into my palm with quiet finality.
“This jewel, sir, is not merely a complement to her lipstick; it captures her very essence. Formidable. Headstrong. Spirited. That remarkable young lady offered you love, yet you chose the approval of ghosts. Legacy, after all, is nothing more than the worship of the dead. And your decision, Mr. Sterling, clearly shows you never deserved her.”
He’s not wrong. I was never worthy of her love.
Of course I’d choose her—if my last name didn’t come with the power to destroy Heartvest and sixty million people’s savings.
If loving the wrong woman didn’t mean my father burning down everything Gavin and I built.
But that’s not the world Sterling heirs live in.
We don’t get choices. We get obligations.
Sterling men honor their commitments .
Tomorrow I will propose to Amanda because that’s what the name demands.
“That’s enough advice.” My voice turns icy, in a way that would make my father proud.
“Certainly, Mr. Sterling. I shall return once you’ve concluded your… reflection.”
“No, stay. I’m done here.”
I get up and drop the ruby ring into my pocket. It rattles against the engagement box already hiding there. The sound shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. It’s Petra leaving. It’s Amanda waiting.
My eyes scan the room, like a junkie chasing one last hit.
Please let there be something of hers.
A tissue stained with her red lipstick. A hair tie. A single goddamn strand of hair. Something to hold on to.
There’s nothing on her nightstand, except for Echo’s sketchpad.
I pick it up. The spine is warped, the cover is bent, and the pages are curling from humidity.
I flip through the disturbing images. Page after page of some old man called Marvin. Close-ups of liver spots, nose hair, wrinkles. The words: Gross Man are scrawled everywhere like he’s documenting his own personal nightmare. And then weird sandwich diagrams.
“This belongs to Echo. Petra—um… borrowed it. See that he gets it back.”
Nigel’s gloved fingers hesitate before taking the sketchpad and flipping through it. The crease in his forehead deepens, lips pressing into a thin line. When he lands on the detailed sketch of a man’s face, his posture stiffens.
“Mr. Sterling, might I ask why Miss Brinkman had this particular item in her possession? ”
“She had a theory that Echo and Fiona were involved in some kind of nefarious scheme. She thought these sketches could prove something, but she never figured out the old man’s identity.”
“Dear me,” he whispers.
“What?”
“She may have uncovered something quite serious.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He shows me the sketchpad.
The page depicts a balding man with tired eyes, sagging jowls, and countless liver spots. Echo captured him in stark, unforgiving detail.
“This cannot wait until morning,” Nigel says, white as a ghost. “You must come with me immediately.”
“Why? What’s so urgent?”
“Because I know precisely who this man is. And he may not live long enough to tell us what he knows.”
***
The call goes straight to voicemail. Again.
Those three little dots popped up twenty minutes ago. She’s seen my messages, she knows it’s urgent, but she’s not answering. Every second of silence feels like an eternity.
In order to avoid my father’s surveillance, Nigel escorted me to an isolated, off-limits section of the mansion, allowing me to call Petra and reveal all that we had discovered.
I hit the FaceTime button for the twelfth time. It rings. One beat. Two.
Then, she answers… sort of.
Her camera jerks around like it’s strapped to a rodeo bull. I catch glimpses: a shoulder, a bottle, what looks like a middle finger, and then her face. Blurry, shadowed. Where the hell is she?
“I totally hit ignore, Katie—” hiccup “—jus’ like you said, bitch.”
The camera swings like a pendulum, finally locking on to a close-up of her lips as she tips back a bottle of tequila, chugging a massive gulp.
“Girl’s-s-s-s gotta have some standards, even if her—” hiccup “ —vagina took a week-long vacation from them.”
Christ! She’s wasted.
I quickly place my thumb over my camera to avoid being seen. It’s not the most honorable move, but I’m past caring if it helps me locate her.
“Cam-cam-CAMILAAA,” she sing-songs. But I still can’t see her face. “That walking dildo probably—” hiccup “—had to stick his dick in Amanda’s boujee pussy a few times-s to scrub off my poor-people germs-s-s before calling me.”
The accusation burns worse than the tequila she’s drowning in.
She swigs from the bottle again. No chaser. No pause. “I bet he wants her bare too ’cause she’s so fucking special to him.”
That one cuts deeper. I bite my knuckle.
I haven’t laid eyes on Amanda. Not since Petra vanished. Not since Echo’s sketchpad became a crime scene. Not since the gut-wrenching realization that my best friend could be the next victim if we don’t put a stop to it.
“Fuck, I need my girls here,” Petra mumbles. “Remember our trip to Cabo? Well, I’m never coming back. Mexico can choke on it. Bryce can choke on it. Every billionaire in the world can choke on their billions and die while I laugh and key their stupid yachts.”
She goes for another drink, but this time she just… folds.
One second she’s upright. The next, she’s curled into herself, sobbing—violent, shoulder-shaking sobs that make your ribs ache from hearing them.
The camera finally stills, and her face comes into view.
Her phone’s harsh light illuminates the devastation I caused. Mascara streaks down her face like oil spills. Her eyes are swollen and bloodshot. The defiant red lipstick is smeared across her mouth. Strands of black hair stick to her tear-soaked cheeks.
“He’s with her,” she chokes out. “He loves her, not me. Of course he does. He’s never going to love someone like me.”
Another sob escapes her while I experience what it feels like to have my intestines ripped out through my throat.
“You know what makes me the biggest fucking idiot alive, girls? I always thought… I thought maybe I was the one who saw him the clearest. Saw him as him, ya know. Just… Bryce.”
She wipes her nose on her sleeve. “He never looked at me like I was broken goods. When everyone else saw Gavin’s screwup sister, he just saw me.” Her voice dissolves into broken whispers. “Called me Pip like it was this secret between us—not Petra the disaster, just his Pip.”
The tenderness in her confession shreds what’s left of my heart. She’s laying bare every reason she fell for me—while tearing herself apart in the process.
The sound of waves hammering the shore fills the silence, and I catch sight of our carnival’s dying lights behind her.
She’s still in Mexico?
I spot her battered suitcase leaning against a piece of driftwood, contents scattered along the sand .
Jesus Christ. She’s planning to sleep on the beach? Drunk and alone and heartbroken because I’m a spineless piece of shit.
That’s when I break.
“Pip.”
Her head shoots up. “Bryce?” she calls out, her eyes searching desperately. “Where—?”
“I’m on the phone,” I say quickly.
Finally, she lowers her eyes to the screen, her gaze settling on my face, lip trembling.
“Petra, I’m so—”
“NO!” she shouts, tears streaming harder. “You don’t get to apologize! You don’t get to fix this with your fancy words and your—”
“Please, just listen. You can’t sleep on the beach.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” she shouts, voice cracking. “Or take care of me! Nothing! Goodbye!”
“Wait, Pip! I called about Echo’s sketchpad. Remember the drawings—”
“I don’t care about any of you assholes!”
Panic claws up my throat. “Please, go to a hotel. I’ll pay for it. Or I’ll get you a car back to Casa Cashmere. Just share your location—”
“Ha! Good luck finding me, Moneybags!”
SPLASH.
The screen goes black.
She threw her phone into the ocean.
Goddammit.