Page 27 of Convenient Vows

“Then why are you upset?”

I laugh softly, the sound thin and brittle.

“Cristóbal called.”

Her brows lift slightly, questioning without words why Cristóbal’s call should upset me.

“He wants me to marry within the cartel.” I frown. “Says there are capable men who should have been Papa’s first choice of candidates. “Now I am beginning to worry. Do you think this alliance would weaken us?”

My mother’s eyes soften, her hand resting lightly over mine.

“You know it would not. If anything, it will expand your father's reach.”

“So, Zasha is not a bad choice?”

“No, he is the perfect choice.”

“How come Papa did not propose this to the bratva sooner?”

My mother looks me in the eye, “I want you to know, Mija, I’ve been holding your father back.”

I blink, caught off guard.

“From what?”

“From arranging your marriage,” she says quietly, fingers squeezing mine gently. “I kept hoping… maybe you’d find someone yourself. A love match, like your father and I had.”

Something stirs in my chest — a bittersweet ache because I have found someone. But I can’t tell her. Not when I know how close she and my father are, how every word between us might slip its way to his ears.

They’re a united front, my parents. Always have been.

And some things… some feelings… I’m not ready to share.

I lean forward, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face against her shoulder.

She holds me tightly, murmuring softly, stroking my hair the way she did when I was small.

“I’ll make the best of it, Mama,” I whisper, voice steady.

She pulls back slightly, her eyes glimmering, her smile both proud and wistful.

“I know you will,mi reina.”

We sit like that for a while, quiet and close, the hush of the room wrapping around us.

And deep inside, I make another silent vow: I’ll make the best of it — yes.

But more than that…

I will fight for what I want, even if no one knows it yet.

The door clicks softly behind my mother as she leaves, and for the first time all night, the room feels still.

I sit on the edge of my bed, the soft lamp casting a warm, gentle glow across the sheets. My fingers drift across the pillow, absently tracing the embroidered edges, my heart thudding a little faster with every breath.

“In a few weeks,” I whisper aloud to the empty room, “I will become his wife.”

The words send a rush of heat racing through me.

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