Page 102 of Convenient Vows

He sniffles. “Can we go home now? I don’t want this adventure anymore.”

I kiss the top of his head. “Soon, baby. Very soon.”

Five minutes. That’s all I get with him, and a guard walks in and reaches for Maksim.

“No!” he shrieks. “No, mamá! Don’t let them take me!”

I hold on, but two more guards come in, and I’m yanked back, arms trembling from the fight to keep him. Maksim’s screams pierce through the room, and then my soul as he’s ripped from me.

Then he’s gone, and the silence that follows is unbearable.

I sit on the floor for a long second, feeling like my soul has been peeled from my skin. But I don’t cry. Instead, I stand.

Cristóbal hasn’t moved. He watches me with an evil glint, like I’m a puzzle he already knows how to solve.

I speak quietly. “I’ll do it.”

He tilts his head for me to be specific.

“I’ll marry you.”

“Of course you will.”

“But I want to speak to my parents first.”

“No,” he says. “You will marry me this evening. After that, you can call your precious mother and father and tell them the good news. That their daughter has finally found love.”

I don’t blink.

“You’ll tell them we’ve been together for years. That Maksim is my son. That this—” he gestures around the room “—is a beginning, not an end.”

I straighten. “You really think my parents will believe Maksim is your son?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” he says, his voice now sharp. “Because he looks like that swine?”

I say nothing, because anyone who’s ever seen Zasha would be a fool not to know that Maksim is his son.

Cristóbal leans in, his voice venomous.

“Then I suggest you work on your story. Get convincing, fast. Because if your parents smell a lie, they might come sniffing and that will not end well for both you and your son.”

He steps back, smoothing his sleeves like he’s closing a business deal. “You’ll wear white,” he says over his shoulder. “We’ll call it something poetic. Maybe ‘A new beginning.’ ”

After he leaves, a woman walks in. She is a tall, slim figure in gray slacks and a fitted blouse, her dark hair pulled back into a tight twist, lips bare, clipboard in hand. She doesn’t offer a greeting. No smile. No warmth. Just a curt nod in my direction, as if I’m a task she plans to finish quickly.

I sit on the edge of the bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes and still tasting the aftermath of Cristóbal’s slap in the pulse of my bruised cheek. My fingers tighten around the edge of the mattress.

The woman finally speaks. "You need to take a bath.”

She turns and walks to the adjoining bathroom as if I’m expected to follow without protest. And I do, gritting my teeth, because the last time I fought back, I was the one who bled.

The bathroom smells like rosewater and lavender. The tub is deep and clawfooted. Steam curls upward as I slip into the water. It stings the rawness of my skin—the side of my face, the bruise on my ribs where I landed against the vanity. I say nothing. I letthe water swallow me up to my chin and close my eyes for two seconds. That’s all I can afford. Just two seconds.

When I emerge, a fresh towel is waiting. The woman gestures to a white robe, then silently begins laying out items on the vanity. Foundation. Concealer. Highlighter. Lip color. Every product meticulously selected to hide the bruise on my face.

I sit, and she starts on my hair first. Soft waves. A low twist pinned with silver clips. She doesn’t ask if I like it. She doesn’t meet my eyes. Her job is not to comfort. Her job is to erase.

As she begins brushing foundation over my cheek, the bruise vanishes under layers of pigment. Gone. As if it never happened. But I still feel it. Throbbing beneath the mask.

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