Page 108

“He’s staying here.”
I turn to face him, slowly, careful not to let my expression crack. “He has never seen his grandparents, and going without him may raise suspicions.”
Cristóbal’s eyes gleam. “Well, that is your problem.”
I go still.
“If you so much as blink wrong at your parents' house,” he says, voice dipping into something darker, “He’ll be punished here. You understand me?”
My nod is mechanical, but my insides are screaming. I watch him turn and stroll out like this conversation meant nothing. Like he didn’t just hand me a loaded gun and dare me to fire at myself.
As the door clicks shut, my knees threaten to buckle. I grip the edge of the vanity once more. There would be no freedom today—just the suffocating truth that my son is bait, and I’m the hook Cristóbal is dangling in front of everyone.
I apply a final touch of powder to my face to conceal the truth. Then I stand, straighten my dress, and wish I were walking out of this hellhole with my son.
The hallway stretches before me, long and cold. I walk beside Cristóbal without a word. He doesn’t touch me, but I feel the weight of his presence pressing into my side like a loaded weapon.
I glance once, just once, over my shoulder toward the hall that leads to where I think Maksim is being held. I don’t stop. I don’t linger. But my heart stays back there.
He’s probably coloring right now. Or waiting by the window like he does when I leave the room. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. He still believes that this is part of our adventure.
As we walk towards the main exit, my heels echo in time with Cristóbal’s steps. I notice he is humming under his breath, and I want to vomit. For the millionth time, I berate myself for informing him of my return.
The sun is bright, but the chill in my bones doesn’t melt. I stand at the edge of the driveway, one polished shoe placed in front of the other, waiting for the car door to open. Cristóbal stands beside me, too close. His cologne clings to the air like a warning.
“You’ll need to up your game today,” he says smoothly. “Play the happy wife. Laugh at something I say. Touch my arm. And at some point during the visit”—he turns to me, voice dropping—“you’ll kiss me. Spontaneously.”
I don’t flinch. But I do look him in the eye.
“I’d rather kiss a poisonous snake.”
His smile fades. Slowly.
His hand lifts—open palm, midair—and I brace for it. The sting. The humiliation. But he stops.
He lets his hand hover for a breath longer. Then he lowers it. “It would be a shame to give you new bruises,” he murmurs. “They take time to fade, and you’ll need to look radiant going forward.”
I exhale quietly, just as his other hand slips into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and dials without breaking eye contact.
A familiar fear coils in my gut.
“Put me on speaker,” he says when the person on the other end answers.
My heart thunders.
“Maksim’s misbehaving again,” Cristóbal says casually. “Remind him how we handle that.”
There’s a nauseating pause. Then a loud, echoing smack of flesh hitting flesh, followed by my son’s scream.
I crumble.
My feet move before I think. I stumble into Cristóbal’s arms and press my mouth against his. My stomach turns. I hate him. I hate myself. But I keep kissing him.
His lips twist into a smirk as he kisses me back. I feel nothing but revulsion.
After a few seconds, he pushes me away like I’m something cheap he’s grown bored of. “Easy, baby,” he says mockingly. “I know you can’t keep your hands off me, but let’s not forget that we are outside.”
I am going to kill this bastard myself.