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“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 yourentireinheritance. 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 himpequeño torowhen 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 positionisa job.” “But it’snotthe 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 andvallenatobeats, 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 forajiaco santafereño, a local specialty stew of chicken, potatoes, capers, and corn, and indulged inobleawafers 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.
