Page 83 of When Lies Unfold

Nothing good comes from dwelling on the past. Taking heed of it and using it as a continuous lesson? Absolutely. But letting it continue to drag me down? Hell no.

Though I’ve come far, I can also admit that I’ve reverted in some ways. I’m still walking a fine line to preserve my life. To prove myself to Santiago.

The main difference is that I don’t recoil when he touches me, nor has he willingly hurt me. Has he intimidated me? Without a doubt. But he’s never drawn blood from me.

It’s sad that it’s something to be commended, but such is my life.

I can’t help but wonder if the universe is messing with me, though. The dinner, the man, the dress. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were any other day. But it’s not.

My stomach roils more violently, and I know there’s nothing I can do to stifle it. Because today is the day I was born.

It’s also the day I died.

Pinching my eyes closed, I drag in a deep breath, forcing myself to refocus on the dress and heels lying on my bed.

I almost miss the note tucked alongside the sleek black heels, but when I withdraw it, my heart stutters at the undeniably masculine scrawl.

Dinner’s at eight.

Wear the dress or don’t wear the dress. Your choice.

Panties are optional.

Panties are optional. Only Santiago Hernández would have the audacity to write that.

Tossing the card on my bed, I pad into my bathroom and shut the door. I step in the shower and allow the water to spill over me, silently pleading for it to wash away every ounce of my stress.

Once I step out and wrap a towel around me, I face the vanity mirror and a dawning realization hits me.

A part of the note illustrated the tiniest difference between Santiago and…him.

Wear the dress or don’t wear the dress. Your choice.

Your choice. Those two simple words ricochet inside my mind. Your choice.

I was never granted that before. Not until I made my final escape.

Yet now, Central America’s most notorious cartel leader is giving me one.

37

LOLA

A battle churns deep within me on whether to wear something of my own versus that dress. The fact that Santiago gave me a choice just…matters.

Somehow, I know the man wouldn’t look down on me if I wore my own much simpler, cheaper clothing.

After a deep, fortifying breath, I reach for the dress.

The fabric molds to my curves like a lover’s hands, the hem flirting with the top of my knees and a slit along one side. With a slim diagonal strap over one shoulder, my other shoulder remains bare. I wonder if he planned it like this—to have my exposed shoulder be the one covered in inked butterflies.

Cut in a straight line, the bodice doesn’t bare even the tops of my breasts and is a much more conservative choice than I would’ve expected from him.

However, when it comes to the back, it’s increasingly more revealing. The entire length of my spine is on display, which means my tattoos are in plain sight.

The only saving grace is that my hair will conceal the part near my nape. While this dress exposes more of my body than I’m accustomed to, it’s inarguably gorgeous.

Since I don’t use much makeup, I’m ready in no time at all after I dry my hair. Once I slip the heels on, I wobble and brace a hand against the wall to steady myself.

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