Page 2 of Trapped

He’s showing me his favorite Spotify playlist on his phone when I hear the main door of the gym open. I look at the clock. 2:22 a.m. My heart jumps, and naturally, I jump to my feet.

“Oh, shit. I gotta go.” All panic subsides when I see Olivia searching the entrance.

“Wait. When will you be back?” he asks.

“I-I won’t be.” I turn my back on him and take off to meet Olivia at the warehouse entrance, happy to see my aunt instead of my father. He would have been in a rage had he caught me talking to someone the night before my wedding.

But that boy is someone who will soon be a memory.Someonewho made me feel something that no one else has for the first time. I am sure this feeling won’t be waiting at the end of an aisle for me tomorrow, giving me hope that one day I can escape thetrap laid out for me. Escape the marriage my father has arranged for me.

Past: Day of Wedding

Light brushes sweep over my face as I stare into the mirror. My eyes are blank before me, and my face is pale. Red blotches linger on my cheeks from the dried tears I shed all night. I’ve always enjoyed looking the part of the living dead, but now, I can feel it in my soul.

Doña Clara holds back tears as she continues to apply my makeup. Her face is grim, a similar expression to everyone in my family. The same sad and sullen expression. Pobrecita.Poor thing, the maids would whisper when I passed by. I hated that word. It made me feel weak and helpless. A catalyst for my life. The poor little girl whose father never loved her and whose mother had died resenting her. Pobrecita.

The days leading up to today had only created more whispers behind my back and more saddened expressions. I had a black cloud looming above me. It followed me all over the hotel, and everyone would stop and stare. It is why I spent every night slamming my fist into a punching bag and hiding from my family. What did they expect? Today feels more like my funeral and less like my wedding day.

Most girls my age are receiving their driver’s license, and here I am being pampered to walk down the aisle. My father had no problem using me as a peace offering for a rival cartel. My tios fought like hell against my father, but like always, he had the final say. I have no idea who the groom is, and I’ve spent days worrying about the suitor he has picked for me.

A knock sounds at the door, and I look up to see an older woman letting herself into the bridal suite. Her frame is tall, and her features are soft. She flashes me a smile in the mirror. Doña Clara freezes at her entrance, and when the two of them make eye contact, I see the way her stare turns cold toward the woman.

“Con Permiso,” the woman whispers.Excuse me.A smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes take me in, and I look away. She must not see the black cloud.

“How can we help you, Señora?” Doña Clara’s voice is courteous, but her glare is not. Doña Clara has been my nanny for as long as I can remember. Shit, she is the closest thing I have to a real mother.

The woman walks to the vanity, picks up a brush, and begins brushing my hair. My hair barely passes my shoulders, with chunks of green and short choppy layers. My bangs are short and swept to the side. The layers alone make it difficult to create an elegant look for the day, and I’m not sure what she’ll do with my bangs.

If she’s worried, she makes no sign of it and continues to brush my hair. I look at the clock and take a deep breath. Eight more hours. We have eight hours to go. Eight hours to transform my grunge look and to turn me into something more presentable. Something like the mystery woman standing in front of me. Bold. Sophisticated. Confident. She’s most definitely a narco’s wife.

Another laugh escapes the woman, who is now pulling small sections of my hair and twisting them upward. She secures each one with a bobby pin. I look up and try to rationalize what she’s laughing at. If she is laughing at me, then I am far from offended. My style choices are made partially to keep people away, and partially a tribute to Alejandra Guzmán.

My father hated Alejandra Guzmán. He called her music distasteful and labeled her a slut for the way she dressed. His hatred for her alone is enough for me to want to be her. My aunt, Olivia, is five years my senior, and growing up, we clung to each other like sisters. Our rooms were next to each other at my grandma’s house. At night, I would sneak into her room so I didn’t have to sleep alone.

During the day, we would dance around my grandmother’s living room every time one of Alejandra Guzmán’s videos came on Bandamax. I was always inspired by the singer’s eccentric dance moves. She was confident and stylish. She made the typical male chauvinist cringe but made women like Doña Clara feel powerful. When people called her crazy she gave them crazy. Not one fuck given. I wanted that. I learned early on that to be feared was better than feeling loved, better than being pitied.

“You are very beautiful,” the woman says before turning to Doña Clara. “Clara, I can handle it from here.” Doña Clara stiffens at the dismissal. I know the look in her eyes. She’s enraged, but whoever this woman is, she has some type of authoritative position. That is the only explanation for the wayDoña Clara bites her tongue and exits slowly. Confused, I look up. The woman offers me a genuine smile.

“My name is Josefina Macias.” Her introduction is an answer to the confusion still on my face. She walks to the front of me, blocking my view of myself in the mirror, and grabs my hand. I know the last name. I have made myself very familiar with it over the last few months. It was scattered over all the invitations we sent out. It was attached to various Facebook Posts of news outlets in both the United States and Mexico.

Estevan Macias is much more than a Real Estate Mogul; he is the kingpin of Los Reyes of Tamaulipas, a branch of the gulf cartel operating outside of Tamaulipas, Mexico and up through Hidalgo, Texas. Their influence expands up into Arizona and California.

“I know what you’re feeling right now, but I promise you, my son is just as nervous as you are. When he sees what I see, it will put his fears to rest.” Josefina searches my eyes as I sort through the anxiety rising in my chest.

What could her son have to fear? I am the one signing my life over and leaving everything I know to join this family.

“Would you like to meet him?” she asks.

“Isn’t that against the rules?” I am far from excited about this wedding, but I know there are traditions in place where the groom has to wait to see the bride. My abuela said it was bad luck if he saw her before. I have enough bad luck going on at the moment, so no need to summon anymore damnation to my life.

“We make our own rules.” A smirk forms at the corner of her mouth, and a mischievous twinkle sparkles in her eyes. I’m not sure if I can trust her.

I let the silence fill the room as I take in her proposition. I want to see him, but I don’t know if it’s safe. Most of my life has been spent learning to decipher what to do should a situation pose a threat to me. While other girls were playing with dolls and dressing up, I was practicing trick shots with an M-9. But this doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like an opportunity.

“I can have one of your aunts accompany us, if that makes you feel more comfortable?” She squeezes my hand she still has in hers. I go against my judgments and trust she’s being sincere. I don’t know why, but I do. I am nervous. No, that is an understatement. In the last twenty-four hours, I have experienced every emotion known to man. Sad, angry, nervous, and sad again. I am worried about everything and anything. I am worried about how I will initially react to Silas in front of a large audience. If he is hideous, I know my facial expressions will easily betray me. The wedding pictures alone will haunt me.

I can’t imagine the son of this beautiful woman could be unattractive. If he isn’t ugly, then I will still have the fear of him looking at me and finding me hideous. I’ve lost sleep at the thought of how he could humiliate me in front of my family. It only makes sense to get this over with now. Meet my husband and quiet the torment of the what-ifs in my head.

“Okay. Could you bring in my Tia Olivia?” I rarely call her the formal title of Tia, but Josefina doesn’t need to know that. If anyone can calm me down right now, it’s her.

---