Page 9

My stomach churns uneasily. I sink onto the edge of my bed, the anger draining out of me, replaced swiftly by dread. "So I’m to be married off to one of his enforcers or lieutenants, someone I've barely spoken two words to, let alone care for?"
Cristóbal leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze earnest. "You know your father adores you. If you speak to him, appeal to that bond you two share, he might let you have some say in this."
I stare at him silently, weighing his words. He has a point. My father has always doted on me, giving in to my every wish and whim, even those he disapproved of. Perhaps Cristóbal is right—perhaps I still have a choice.
“Who would you suggest, then?” I ask softly, my mind already spinning with possibilities. “Someone he’d approve of and someone I wouldn’t despise spending my life with?”
Cristóbal shrugs, a thoughtful look crossing his handsome features. “You’ve always been smart about these things, Mara. Pick someone strategically—someone who’d benefit your father’s cartel, someone your father would respect enough to approve of, and someone you could tolerate.”
A faint tremor of anxiety moves through my limbs. I look down at my lap, considering his words carefully. One name rises quickly in my mind, unbidden and unstoppable, sending heat across my cheeks.
Zasha.
My pulse quickens traitorously at the thought of him. Calm, powerful, and dangerously controlled. I've watched him quietly over the years, studied him from afar, every measured word and rare, guarded smile stored secretly in my heart. He’s one of the most feared men in our kind of business, respected and admired by even the most hardened cartel men. Yet, Zasha has always felt impossibly distant—untouchable. A silent shadow existing on the edges, ever-present but forever just out of reach.
Could I really be bold enough to propose Zasha as my choice?
“Mara?” Cristóbal’s voice breaks my reverie, pulling me back sharply into the present.
I lift my gaze to meet his questioning eyes. “What?”
“You have someone in mind, don’t you?” A small smile curls his lips, faintly teasing. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Heat floods my cheeks again, but I refuse to look away. “Maybe.”
“Is he someone you are confident can take care of you and lead our organization?”
I nod shyly but refuse to mention his name.
He chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “Then speak to your father soon. Propose this man, whoever he is. Do it now before Don Thiago settles on someone else.”
I nod slowly, dread and determination swirling uncomfortably inside me. The thought of marriage, of surrendering myself into the care of another person, fills me with unease. But the alternative—the loss of my autonomy, the fate of being shackled to someone I despise—terrifies me more.
“I’ll talk to him tonight,” I say firmly, forcing strength into my voice. "Before he has time to set anything into stone."
Cristóbal stands, crossing the room to stand before me. He gently takes my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Whatever happens, Mara, I'll always be here for you. You know that, right?"
I smile weakly up at him, comforted by his familiar presence. Cristóbal has always been there, steady and reliable—the closest thing I've had to a brother, a confidant through every challenge. "I know. Thank you."
He nods, releasing my hand. "Good luck."
As he quietly leaves the room, I’m left alone with nothing but the rapid beating of my heart and the uncertainty of my future. I stand slowly, moving to the window and gazing out over our sprawling estate, the gardens peaceful and serene, oblivious to the chaos brewing within me.
I have to take control. If my father insists on marriage, it must be on my own terms.
And my choice is already clear, even though it terrifies me.
Zasha.
The one man I’ve always secretly wanted, yet never dared to reach for.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I push aside my fear. Cristóbal is right—I have the power here. My father loves me too much to deny me this. I just need to convince him that my choice is the right one, not only for me—but for the future of our entire family.
Later that evening, as I get ready for bed, my mind refuses to quiet down. I pace restlessly across the cool marble floor ofmy bedroom, twisting a strand of my hair around my finger in agitation. My reflection stares back at me from the ornate mirror over my vanity, eyes darkened with uncertainty and nerves. How exactly am I supposed to approach my father about arranging a marriage to Zasha?
The very thought of speaking those words aloud sends my heart racing wildly beneath my ribs, an unfamiliar rush of excitement intertwined with fear. Yet even as I start to form the words in my mind—carefully rehearsing what I might say—another thought strikes me like a sudden flash of clarity.
Maybe there’s an even better way.