Page 5

MARISELA

I was used to being watched. Gawked at. Whispered about.

I might not have been the son my father wanted, but he found a way to turn me into the asset he needed.

Children were loved, but assets? Those were protected.

Until they reached profitability, and then you had to cash in before depreciation forced you to cut your losses.

See? You could have a nice set of tits and a sensible business acumen.

But who was I to argue with a man who still believed female castration was a very real solution for teenage promiscuity?

Though I was pretty certain a GPS tracking device with a flashing red light wouldn’t help Papa or his associates find the clit.

How unfortunate for their wives. And Mama.

Truth was I didn’t know what it was like not to feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on me. But something about tonight was different. A chill traveled up my spine that had nothing to do with the night air and everything to do with the man I could feel watching me.

I didn’t know who he was. Hell, I didn’t even know if he was a he . I could only assume. What I did know was that he was down there. Somewhere. Looking up at me. Watching my every move like I fascinated him.

That was the difference. Whoever it was wanted to shatter my ivory tower, not keep me locked inside it.

Could it all be in my head? A fantasy dreamed up by a girl with too much time on her hands and not a vibrator in sight?

Sure. Pent-up sexual frustration could drive even the most respectable of us mad. And I never claimed to be respectable.

Picturing the look on my father’s face if I tried to slip a certain phallic-shaped package past his security had a smile tipping up one side of my lips.

Hernando Alonzo Cruz would never allow his daughter the impropriety of owning a vibrator.

But there wasn’t shit he could do about her fingers.

Taking those away would only decrease her market value and ruin his chances of furthering his political career.

So it was just me and the shadow man. Playing a game of chicken to see who would be the first to cave.

It wouldn’t be me. I’d mastered this game over the years, daring my father’s men to cross the line between bodyguard and mixed bodily fluids.

But, unfortunately for me and luckily for them, no one had taken the bait.

So I remained painfully untouched. A pretty package waiting to be unwrapped by whatever sleazy predator was deemed wealthy enough to be named my husband.

I could feel it. The moment my little Peeping Tom slunk back into the shadows and disappeared. The air was somehow both warmer and cooler at the same time as I slammed my window shut and pulled the curtains into place.

The boredom was the worst part. Brief moments of exhilaration followed up by long stretches of stifling boredom.

My father wasn’t the only one who wished I’d been born with a little more between my legs.

Having a cock might have significantly lowered your brain cell count but it also gave you the luxury of blissful ignorance.

Not knowing or caring how the world worked because shit was always in your favor.

Had to admit it sounded like a nice way to do things.

I plopped down on my bed, stretching my arms above my head while allowing my lower body to dangle off the mattress, and stared at the underside of the canopy. It was odd, how much contempt I could direct towards an inanimate object. More specifically, its color.

Pink. Like the cheeks I was forced to pinch to that perfect hue. Like the curtains that shielded me from the outside world. Like the rose-tinted glasses everyone seemed to wear when all I wanted to see was red… like the red -hot rage burning through my veins.

I traced a thin line across the left side of my face from temple to jaw with a pink-tipped finger.

Over and over again until I was digging deep enough to draw blood.

And as soon as I felt that warm droplet trickle towards my eye, forcing me to blink out of my trance, I pushed up from the bed and stalked towards my walk-in wardrobe. With one thought on my mind.

Getting the fuck out of this pretty pink prison.