C ertain things in life made sense. For example, the concept of cause
and effect, the heat of the sun, and female praying mantises killing their partners after sex. No muss, no fuss—they got their pleasure, and they were done.
Some things made less sense, like the encroachment of Christmas songs in October and my being the judge of whether Xavier should continue receiving his annual allowance prior to his father’s death. It wasn’t ideal, but since the terms of his allowance revolved around media exposure, I understood it.
Then there were things that made no sense at all, such as being placed on a committee that would determine the fate of seven point nine billion dollars.
I wasn’t family, I wasn’t a corporate executive, and I wasn’t sure what the hell I was doing on that list.
“I didn’t know,” I said. “Your father never mentioned it to me.”
It was the day after the reading of the will, and Xavier and I sat by the pool while two of his preteen cousins argued over the latest New York Times crossword a few chairs down.
I woke up early that morning for yoga and found him here on my way back from the mansion’s attached gym. I needed a break from the constant
glares and whispers, and I wasn’t entirely confident Lupe wouldn’t try to stab me in my sleep.
The Castillos were not happy about my involvement in their family’s financial affairs, to put it mildly.
“I believe you.” Xavier scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. He was unusually subdued for someone who’d just found out his entire inheritance hinged on one job and the judgment of one committee. “This whole thing is classic Alberto Castillo.”
I sensed there was more to his words than he let on, but it wasn’t the time to pry.
Other than the occasional consulting call and press release, my dealings with his father had been limited. Alberto hired me to handle PR for his family three years ago, right before Xavier moved to New York. Since his direct family consisted of two people, and Alberto rarely used my services for himself, that meant I was basically Xavier’s personal publicist.
I had no idea why Alberto trusted me so much with his money as it pertained to Xavier, but his will also stipulated I was to remain the family’s publicist unless I quit, so it was my job to see things through.
“I can see the wheels spinning in your head, but there’s an easy fix for this,” I said. “You’re smart. You have a degree in business and plenty of advisors who can guide you. Take the CEO position.”
Normally, I wouldn’t advocate for nepotism, but I truly believed Xavier was intelligent enough to do the role justice.
A muscle worked in his jaw. “No.”
I stared at him. “This is your entire inheritance. You have billions of dollars riding on this decision.”
“I’m aware.” Xavier glanced at his cousins, who were too young and too engrossed in their crossword to care about our conversation. “That clause was just another attempt by my father to make me do his bidding. It’s manipulation, plain and simple, and I won’t give into it.”
For God’s sake. I understood why his family had called him pequeño toro when he was a kid. He truly was stubborn as a bull, and that stubbornness had followed him all the way to adulthood. “Manipulation or not, the consequences are real.” I shouldn’t care that much about whether Xavier received the money or not because, honestly, it wasn’t like he’d worked for it. But the prospect of him being penniless because he was too hardheaded to take on something he could be great at didn’t sit right with me. “Don’t be impulsive. Think about what saying no means. What will you do for money?”
“Get a job.” Xavier’s mouth twisted. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll finally be a productive member of society.”
“The CEO position is a job.” “But it’s not the job for me!”
I reared back, stunned by the ferocity of his reply. His cousins lapsed into silence and gaped at us.
Xavier’s knuckles turned white around the edge of his chair before he relaxed them. He took a deep breath and said, in a quieter, more strained voice, “Tell me, Sloane. Who do you think would do the company more justice? Someone qualified who actually wants to be there, or me, the reluctant heir who was placed there by default?”
Someone qualified. The tone of his voice, the shadows in his eyes… And there it was.
Beneath the jokes and stubbornness lurked the root of his refusal: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of not living up to expectations. Fear of running and ruining an empire built on his last name.
I’d never noticed it before, but now that I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. It was a bright silver thread that wove through every word and underpinned every decision. It was stamped all over his face, closed off as it was, and something inside me cracked open just wide enough for it to dart in and steal a fistful of rationality. “I think we need to go out and clear our heads.” I made up a plan on the spot. “We’ve been cooped up here for too long.”
The mansion was huge, but even a palace would feel oppressive if one couldn’t leave.
Xavier’s eyes sparked with wary intrigue. “I thought we were supposed to stay inside and avoid the press.”
“Since when do you do what you’re supposed to do?”
A smile snuck across his mouth, as slow and smooth as honey. “Good point. I assume you have a plan?”
“I always do.”
 |
All the reporters were camped out in front, which made it easy for us to slip out the back through the gardener’s entrance. We wore basic hat-and- glasses disguises, but they worked, and they blended well into the crowd.
After we exited the grounds, we hightailed it to the nearest busy street, where we grabbed a cab and drove straight to La Candelaria, home to some of Bogotá’s most popular attractions. It was cold, but not so cold that it deterred us from going.
Once we arrived, it was easy to get lost in the throngs of tourists heading to one of the nearby museums or oohing and aahing over the street murals.
I had a feeling Xavier was like me. In times of crisis, I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts; I wanted to lose myself in noise and activity and let the world drown out my worries.
Over the next four hours, that was exactly what we did.
Bogotá was a vibrant city, its rainbow-hued colonial architecture a striking contrast against the surrounding green mountains. Musicians filled the air with reggaeton and vallenato beats, and the mouthwatering smell of
onion, garlic, and spices spilled from restaurants and street carts. There was no shortage of distractions.
Xavier and I wandered through the Botero Museum before we joined a free graffiti walking tour and admired the intricate design of Teatro Colón. When we got hungry, we ducked into a nearby restaurant for ajiaco santafereño, a local specialty stew of chicken, potatoes, capers, and corn, and indulged in oblea wafers for dessert.
We didn’t talk about work, family, or money. We simply enjoyed our first taste of freedom since we’d landed in Colombia, but as with all good things, it had to come to an end.
Alberto’s funeral was tomorrow, and we were supposed to fly home the day after that. Colombian funerals usually took place within twenty-four hours of death, but Alberto’s elaborate wishes and stature dictated a slower turnaround. International CEOs and heads of state required more planning than your standard funeral guests.
“Since it’s just the two of us, be honest,” I said as we wandered past a row of colorful houses toward Bolivar Square. “Are you really willing to give up everything to spite your father?” I kept my voice gentle.
Xavier’s emotions were running understandably high, but he had to understand the gravity of his situation.
He’d grown up a billionaire’s son. He had no concept of what it was like to live without a massive cushion of money.
He was quiet for a long moment. “What did your parents want you to be when you were little?”
I startled at the abrupt question and answered frankly. “They wanted me to be the perfect socialite. Attend an Ivy League college to get a husband instead of a job, marry someone from a respectable family, and spend the rest of my life decorating and hosting charity galas.”
There was nothing wrong with any of those things. They just weren’t for me.
“And now you’re a hotshot publicist.” We turned the corner, and the square came into view. “Let’s say you and your father are still talking. What would you do if he said he’ll cut you off unless you quit your job and marry some polo-playing douche named Gideon?”
Touché.
“I’d tell him to fuck off.” Which I basically had. “Though ironically, I dated a polo player named Gideon in high school and yes, he was a douche.”
That earned me a soft laugh.
“Your turn to be honest,” he said. “People’s reputations and livelihoods depend on you. Are you ever scared you’ll fuck it up?” “Sometimes.” I was confident in my skills, but like everyone,
I had my moments of doubt. Was I giving my client bad advice? Did I use the wrong turn of phrase? Should I have pushed them to do an interview with this outlet or that one? The second-guessing was enough to drive me out of my mind, but at the end of the day, I had to trust my gut. “But that’s the thing about reputations and livelihoods. They can be rebuilt.”
“Careful, Luna. You sound almost optimistic.”
I rolled my eyes, but a smile threatened to escape as we wound toward the Palace of Justice anchoring one side of the plaza.
“You make it sound like I’m doom and gloom all the time. I’m a fun person.”
“Hmm.”
I frowned. “Just because I don’t go clubbing every night or party on yachts every weekend doesn’t mean I’m not fun.”
“Mm-hmm.” “Stop doing that!”
“Doing what?” Xavier asked innocently. “Making that noise. I can hear
your skepticism.”
It was stupid to take offense, considering my job wasn’t to be fun, but I knew how to have a good time. My friends and I met for weekly happy hours in New York, and I’d (reluctantly) agreed to a lap dance during Isabella’s bachelorette party. I’d danced on a tabletop in Spain, for Christ’s sake! Granted, I’d been wasted at the time, but it was the action that counted.
“I didn’t say a single word. What you infer from my noises is on you,” Xavier quipped.
“If manipulating semantics were a job, you’d be the CEO,” I muttered. “You—” Wait a minute.
I came to such a sudden halt, the tourists behind us almost crashed into
me.
“No.” My heart picked up speed until it thrummed like a trapped
hummingbird. “It can’t be that simple.”
“What?” Xavier demanded. He glanced around us in case of trouble.
I replayed the reading of the will in my head. I was almost certain…no, I was positive I was right.
“I have it,” I said breathlessly.
“Have what? You gotta give me more than that, Luna.”
“I have a solution to your problem.” I grabbed his arm, too excited to contain myself. “Your father’s will says you have to assume the CEO position. It didn’t specify what you have to be the CEO of.”
Xavier stared at me.
Tourists streamed around us, muttering their annoyances in various languages, but I could practically hear the gears cranking behind those dark eyes.
Then slowly, so slowly it dawned like the sun over the horizon, a smile blossomed across his mouth.
“Sloane Kensington, I like the way you think.”
