Her father plans to sell me as a sex slave in the virgin auction for what I know will make Raul a pretty penny. So, if I don’t find a way out—and escaping is near impossible—in approximately one week’s time, I’ll become some rich bastard’s pet. A sex slave. That’s what I need to worry about. Not this.
The thought makes the backs of my eyes sting, but I hold back the tears. I refuse to cry in front of these people. I refuse to cry at all, because I know I won’t come back if I break down.
She stops in front of me, tosses her long black hair over her shoulders, and strikes a pose worthy for the cover ofVogue.
“I need you to tell the seamstress to make the cleavage deeper and take in the waist so it shows off my hips.” Her voice is heavy with her thick Spanish accent.
Speaking English is the one mercy I’m grateful for. My mother was from San Francisco. We spoke English most of the time at home, although my father was Mexican, and I was born and raised here.
I speak Spanish just fine, but when my fate was sealed to the Alvarez family, I pretended not to know the language as well as I do because I wanted them to speak to me in the languageIwas most comfortable understanding.
Speaking English reminds me of my mother and days of my childhood when my parents were still alive and I was free from this life in the cartel. It reminds me of hope, although with the threat looming over my head, every trace of anything that resembles hope fades with each passing day. For most of my nineteen years, all I’ve known is pain and suffering.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t go to the fitting?” I offer, not because I care one way or the other. I’m only saying it because I know what she’s like when things don’t go as she wants them to. She ends up taking out her frustration on me or someone else.
“No.” She waves me off with a flick of her wrist. “Obviously, I’ll be away for the day.”
Translation, she—the supposed virgin bride—is going to be out fucking this new guy senseless most likely until tomorrow morning. The last guy was one of her bodyguards. Raul killed him when he found out what was going on. He didn’t want Felipe to know he wouldn’t be getting a virgin on their wedding night. As if Felipe wouldn’t discover that for himself or know what his wife-to-be is like.
That bastard knows and is just as disgusting as Adriana.
“I’ll also need you to polish my shoes when you’re done,” she adds.
I frown. “I did them this morning.”
She sets her hands on her hips. “Clearly, you haven’t polished them properly if I’m telling you to do it again.”
Bitch.
She’s just fucking with me because she hates me. I’m a joke to her. We both know there are only so many times you can polish shoes and so much you can do to them to make them shine. This is just one of the host of games she’s played with me since that ill-fated night when her father ordered the killing of mine and made me her slave.
She treats all the servants who work here on the estate like shit, and they do as they’re told because they know the consequences.
Displease her, and you’re dead. It’s as simple as that. I’ve watched her order the deaths of many for petty things like dropping a bag or missing a spot of dust on furniture she’d ordered to be cleaned.
That’s the kind of evil bitch Adriana Alvarez is.
She only plays with me like this because her father’s plans for me mean she can’t kill me.
Adriana slips the shoes onto her perfectly manicured feet, and even I have to admit they look good on her. I’d love to wear a pair of shoes like those instead of these tattered plimsolls I’ve been wearing for the last few years.
“Got it?” she asks cutting into my thoughts.
“Yes, Señorita Alvarez.”
My voice sounds way too calm for the annoyance I feel. But I’ll be the obedient servant if I can avoid being punished.
The last time I defied her, Raul starved me for a week and locked me in the dungeon for a month. That was terrible, but not as bad as when he whipped me for trying to escape after my father died.
Both instances were enough to keep me in line.
“Good girl. The seamstress should here in about five minutes. Don’t keep her waiting.”
“Okay.”
A knock sounds at the door just as she grabs her little Prada purse from the dressing table. She calls out to come inside in Spanish, and the door swings open.
When I see it’s José, I feel some ounce of relief.
