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“You were on a what?”
“Date.”
There’s a pause, then his voice comes through sounding excited and curious. “With who? How come you did not tell me you have decided on someone, and spoken to your dad about it?”
“With Zasha from the bratva. And I didn’t speak to my father about him; they must have heard my father is shopping for a groom and decided to offer an alliance by marriage.”
For a second, the line goes dead, then his voice comes through again, high and piercing.
“You have to be fucking kidding me right now.”
I wince, pulling the phone slightly away from my ear as his voice rises with sharp outrage.
“You’re letting yourself be handed off to the motherfucking Russians?” he spits. “There are men here — our men — who are more than capable of being your husband! You can’t seriously be okay with this! I can recommend a few if you aren’t sure who to choose.”
A knot twists in my chest, uneasy and tight.
I should tell him the truth — that I’m not being forced, that I want this, that I was the one who approached Zasha in the first place. But his rage holds me back, and deep down, I know Cristóbal won’t understand.
Not the way I want him to.
He’s been my friend since childhood, my confidant and protector in small ways. He’s seen me at my worst and cheered me on when I felt down. When my parents cut off the few friends I had after I was almost kidnapped at seventeen, he gave me a shoulder to cry on. Now, I somehow feel like I’m disappointing him.
“Cristóbal…” I begin carefully, but he cuts me off.
“Did you even talk to your father like I told you to?” he demands, voice tight, sharp. “Did you even try, Mara?”
I swallow hard, feeling a flicker of guilt — not because I didn’t try, but because I handled things my way. I know how much he hates the Russians. He thinks they are accorded more respect than they deserve, and that my father should never have brought them close in the first place.
Before I can form an answer, there’s a soft knock at the door.
“Mara?” My mother’s voice is gentle and warm. “Can I come in?”
I freeze for half a second.
“Cristóbal, I have to go,” I say quickly, my voice a little breathless. “I’ll call you back.”
He’s still mid-sentence when I hang up.
My mother steps in — graceful as ever, her dark hair pinned back neatly, a faint trace of perfume following her like a whisper of flowers.
She smiles softly, eyes sweeping over me as she closes the door behind her.
“How did the date go, sweetheart?”
For a second, I freeze, heart thudding.
Does she know about the kiss? About how Zasha’s hand felt cupping my jaw, the way his mouth seared against mine?
No. Of course not.
I breathe out carefully, trying to steady my voice.
“It… went well.”
My mother moves to the edge of the bed, sitting gently, her hands reaching out to brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Her fingers are warm, familiar — and suddenly, a lump rises in my throat. Because, no matter how poised and polished she always is, my mother has always been a soft place in this world where I can collapse.
She watches me thoughtfully, her expression tender.