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The family Bible has been glaring at me from the desk for days, silently badgering me to add my father’s date of death, and maybe my wedding date. As much as I’d like to ink Valentina Rosa on the yellowed pages, I can’t, not until she knows.

When I finally capitulate, I take a black pen from the desk that won’t smudge, and open the leather-bound cover.

There’s a sealed envelope right at the front. It’s yellowed, although not as badly as the book itself.

Danielait says, across the front, in my father’s scrawl. The back has a wax seal with the Rosa do Vale logo to discourage anyone else from opening it.

My heart beats a little faster as I imagine all the possible scenarios. An apology for arranging my marriage? A father’s declaration of love? A message for Valentina?

They all seem too fanciful as they flit through my mind. My father was a practical man. I’m sure the letter reiterates information about the property or his business that he wanted to be certain I remembered.

If that’s all it is, why are you hesitant to open it?

I stare at the envelope for what feels like an eternity, before I slide a letter opener under the flap, leaving the seal intact.

My hands have been trembling since I saw the letter but as I read, my stomach shakes, too.

Daniela, meu amor,

You’re reading this because you are recording the date of my death, or perhaps your marriage to Antonio. I love you with all my heart and soul, but right now, I’m quite sure my affection isn’t returned.

You must be angry and confused. You have every right to be.

When you were a little girl, I was your hero. You believed that there was nothing I couldn’t do. But by the time you were twelve, you learned that I couldn’t do what was most important in this life: protect you and your mother.

What happened in the meadow was my worst fear realized, my most tragic failing, and greatest shame. What kind of man doesn’t protect the women he loves?

I have a confession, meu amor. I was never a hero. I was a coward. This was true long before your mother’s death. I was always too soft with her. I let her do as she pleased, even when I knew it was dangerous. I always gave in to her, because I could deny her nothing. I loved her too much.

I started to make that mistake with you, too, but unlike your mother, I changed course before it was too late.

You wanted me to avenge your mother’s death. I heard your pleas, and even after you stopped asking, I saw it in your eyes. I wanted revenge too. But I couldn’t take it. Not because I didn’t love her, but because I loved you too much. Killing Abel and Tomas would have meant war. War that would have put you and Valentina at too great a risk—a risk I wasn’t willing to take. I swallowed my thirst for revenge every day of my life.

But that’s not why you’re angry with me today. You’re angry because I arranged your marriage to Antonio. Although I believe, in my very soul, that he’s the right man for you, and that you are the right woman for him, I would have never disrespected your mother by choosing your husband. She would have been angrier at me about that than you are now.

But I don’t care about angering either of you. I won’t be soft about this. I won’t fail you again.

Antonio is the one man I trust to protect you and Valentina. The one man with the power and fortitude to stand up against his family. Because if either Abel or Tomas ever make the connection, they will come for you, and for your child. This is their path to Quinta Rosa do Vale.

Antonio is a strong man who needs a strong woman. And you are a strong woman who needs a strong man. Together you will leave a mark on the valley like none other, and more importantly, you’ll have beautiful babies who I would give my soul to hold in my arms.

I did not share the news of Valentina with Antonio. It’s your secret to divulge when you’re ready. Although, I prevail upon you to do it as soon as possible. He will stand by you. I’m as sure of it as I’m sure my health is failing quickly.

I should have told you about the betrothal agreement, but I’m too selfish. We have so little time left, and I don’t want to spend it arguing, or take my last breath with your disappointment in me reflected in your beautiful face. I hope you can one day find it in your heart to forgive me.

All my love to you, and to my sweet Valentina,

Papai

I takea couple of tissues from the box on the desk, wipe my eyes, and blow my nose. But my body is still wracked with sobs.

He assumed I’d read the letter shortly after he died. Under ordinary circumstances, that would have been true, but I was too busy putting plans in place to escape, because I knew that with my father gone, they would eventually come for Valentina.

I rest my head in my arms, on the desk, and I cry, and I cry, and I cry—until there’s nothing left.

When I’m cried out, I’m still angry at him for not telling me about the arrangement. But it’s tempered, because I understand the overwhelming need to keep secrets from a child you love so you don’t destroy their spirit with the truth—so they don’t hate you.

It’s why I haven’t told Valentina that I’m her mother.Although this letter makes me more determined to tell her the truth—even though it terrifies me. I don’t want her to read it in a letter after I die, when I won’t be there to hold her, or to answer her many questions, or to help her work through the anger of betrayal. It’s not fair.

I reread the letter, pausing when I reach these lines:

I couldn’t protect you or your mother. It was my worst fear realized, my most tragic failing, and my greatest shame. What kind of man doesn’t protect the women he loves?

I don’t give a damn how many beautiful women are on my husband’s arm—fake dates, like Sonia. That’s all they are. I don’t care if he’s running around from Marrakesh to Casablanca, partying until dawn. I don’t care how many photos capture his every illicit move. And I don’t care how many stories are written.

I don’t pretend to know what’s going on behind the scenes. But I do know he loves me. No one, and nothing, will convince me differently.

He loves me.

And I love him, too.

His mother’s death was devastating, but more than that, it brought him face-to-face with his worst fear, what would be his most tragic failing, and greatest shame: that I will be next, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

What kind of man doesn’t protect the women he loves?

The kind of man that Antonio Huntsman can’t bear to be.