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“Give me that practiced first daughter smile. I hate it.” She fully steps inside, and I hear the click of the door closing and lock engaging. There’s a beat of silence that lingers, and she comes closer. Mom stops an inch or two from me and I watch her through the mirror as she fights to speak. To find the right words to express whatever is on her mind.
I take the moment to look at her.
Yes, she’s beautiful and without a single deep wrinkle on her face at the age of forty-eight. However, behind the makeup and expensive jewelry, there’s a sadness I’ve never seen before. The mark of a woman near her breaking point.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“Can we talk for a few minutes? I can’t take your disappointment in me.”
“Don’t we need to leave soon? Can this wait?”
“Your father and Signio are waiting downstairs.” At the mention of their names, I force myself to swallow back the harsh words sitting on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I go back to adding the finishing touches to my makeup, dread sitting heavy in my stomach as the clock ticks away.
My distress comes from having to endure that idiot’s attention all night with a fake in-love expression on my face.
My nightmare is having to pretend to love a man I loathe for fear of retribution from my father.
He’s on the warpath. Angry. Almost frothing at the mouth after Alejandro attacked the judicial building four days ago, and more so after the man himself sent him a card with his condolences.
No one has been spared as the country looks at him with distrust. As if he were an imbecile
His ego is wounded. His hopes for a constitutional change is hanging on a precarious thread if he doesn’t convince those in attendance tonight. Those with enough money to make it happen even without public support.
Another reason why tonight feels as though it’s the final nail in my coffin.
My fingers wrap around the closest perfume bottle. “Mom, now isn’t the—”
“I’m leaving your father.”
The glass slips from my hold and crashes back down atop the mirrored vanity top. They shatter, shards of glass spreading all around me and the floor, a few pieces cutting my hand. It stings and I gasp, but nothing else registers. She’s leaving him? How? Does he—
“Baby! Oh shit!” Her cursing pulls my attention back into focus and I clutch her hand, having no idea when I stood up to face her. Nor when she took my injured palm—where the cloth she’s using to wipe the few beads of blood came from. The cuts aren’t deep and there’s only mild pain, but her words stung. There is hurt and confusion, but above all lies and betrayal.
She’s ready to leave him but has no problem handing me off to someone just like my father.
“How could you?”
“Sol, he’s not the same man I married all those years ago.” Her eyes beg mine to understand, to not condemn her. “He’s a monster. The things he’s planning…” Mom trails off when we hear footsteps approaching, her face becoming ashen. “I promise to explain everything, baby. It’ll all make sense.”
Her whispered words anger me, and I snatch my hand back. “Am I a diversion while you get away?” It’s a low hiss, my grey eyes the exact shade as hers, narrowing. “I get married and—”
“You’re not marrying that hijueputa.”
“What?” I don’t question her cursing. I’m too shocked.
“I’m not leaving you here to marry that man or any other your father has in line.”
“But what about what you told the reporters? That lady at dinner?”
Mom’s smile is sad as she comes closer, hands cupping my face. “I have a plan, mamita. Trust me.”
“Trust you with what?” Dad’s voice cuts through and we both turn to face him, our faces a matching calm that evades his perception. Not that he’ll notice either way. My father cares more for his appearance than that of his wife or the happiness of his family. His eyes are reading something on the screen of his phone. “Well?”
Still, he doesn’t look up, and Mom and I share a quick look. “She says you couldn’t notice the drop of blood on my dress. I cut my hand by mistake when a bottle of perfume—”
“Really, Solimar? Can you try and be more careful.” It’s a command. A decree that needs to be followed. “Is her dress okay, Veronica?”
“Yes, amor.”
