Page 46 of When Lies Unfold

A beat of silence hangs between us before he speaks in a low, gravelly tone. “Just so you know, it doesn’t change shit between us. Just ’cause I finger-fucked your?—”

I cut him off with my nonchalant agreement. “I agree. It changes nothing.”

How can you believe that? I quell the tiny, disloyal voice in the recesses of my mind as I liberate myself from his hold. I march to the sink and set the dishes inside.

His deep voice is cool, detached. “Got an early day tomorrow, so you better get unpacked and rest up.”

I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, waiting for him to finish and leave me alone.

“Remember, after you’re done cleanin’ for Aarón, you’ll be back here takin’ care of Alma.”

Fucking great. It’s not that I don’t like his daughter—she’s adorable—but it’s the fact that I’ve been forced into it. “For how long?”

“For as long as I say so, Miss Arias.”

I stare down at the stainless-steel sink. “I don’t suppose I’ll get paid for that, will I?”

His only response to that is a low, derisive grunt.

I release a heavy breath. “I’m not qualified to be a nanny.” My quiet admission hovers between us before he responds with his own.

“Listen closely, Miss Arias, ’cause I’m only gonna say it once.”

I don’t turn but remain standing at the sink as my spine feels as though it’s infused with steel.

The steely undertone in his words is unmistakable. “You’re my liability and you’ll do as I say. If I say you’re qualified enough to be with my daughter, then so be it.”

His footsteps retreat, growing more distant as he leaves. Although I’m left alone in the expansive kitchen, the space feels as though it’s shrunk exponentially, to a suffocating extent.

The freedom I’ve fought so hard for has vanished in the blink of an eye.

All because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Heaving out a sigh, I push away from the sink and survey my surroundings as I scramble to regain my mental footing.

I can do this. I’ll get through it. God knows I’ve been through worse and survived.

It takes me a moment to realize I’ve been massaging my left hand. Dropping my hands at my sides, I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. Fuck Santiago Hernández. He’ll discover I’m not easily manipulated.

He’ll see that I’m tougher than he thinks.

What he doesn’t know—what he’ll never know—is I didn’t gain that toughness by choice. It was never by choice.

It was because it was the only way to survive.

21

SANTIAGO

I mentally brace myself as I sink into my desk chair, my attention fixed on the monitors’ feed—specifically on Lola’s room.

Freshly showered, her hair hangs in a damp curtain fallin’ past her shoulders. It contrasts with the white robe she’s wrapped herself in, and I wonder if she’s completely bare beneath it. If she has on a pair of those barely there panties like the ones she wore earlier.

Fuck. Stay on track.

She’s currently takin’ out her frustration on her clothes, arrangin’ ’em in each dresser drawer how she prefers.

Slammin’ the last drawer closed, she flings herself back on the bed, arms and legs sprawled in a childlike fashion. Her robe rides higher, revealin’ more of her toned thighs.

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