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.”

CHAPTER 17

Xavier

My father’s funeral came and went in a blur of solemn faces and whispered condolences. I gave a brief eulogy at Sloane and Eduardo’s insistence and spent the rest of the memorial floating between numbness and hyperactivity.

My brain hadn’t stopped churning since Sloane and I returned from La Candelaria. We made it back to the house without being ambushed by reporters and confirmed with Santos about the will’s wording.

She was right. My father hadn’t specified what I should be the CEO of, which was a glaring omission for a man with a famed sharklike business sense, but that was a question for another day. After Santos’s confirmation, things moved quickly. We gathered the rest of the inheritance committee, as I called them, and explained the situation.

Dante was the only missing member since he couldn’t make it to Colombia for my father’s funeral, but Eduardo looped him in via email.

It boiled down to this: My first CEO evaluation was in six months, which coincided with my thirtieth birthday. That meant I had half a year to figure out how to fulfill the will’s terms. Meanwhile, Eduardo would remain interim CEO of the Castillo Group while the company searched for a permanent leader.

Six months to become CEO of a company that didn’t exist and that had to pass muster with the committee at the first evaluation. Easier said than done.