Page 104 of Convenient Vows

The reaction is immediate. My mother gasps. My father roars.

“You don’t make decisions like that without us!” he barks.

Mom’s voice trembles. “How could you? What are you thinking, marrying him after all these years of saying you had no feelings for him?”

I bite down on my lip. Hard.

“You don’t understand,” I say, voice measured. “He’s been in touch all this time. He even visited me often in Spain. He’s supported me and protected me. We wanted peace and privacy. We didn’t want the pressure of cartel eyes on our relationship.”

There’s a long pause. Then my father’s voice comes through again. He sounds... disappointed. “So you asked your mother and me for privacy so you could carry on an affair with Cristóbal?”

I can’t speak for a beat. My throat threatens to close.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Lola’s voice cracks.

“Are you happy,mija?”

“Yes.” I lie, as silent tears spill down my face.

“And Maksim?”

“He adores Cristóbal.”

There is more silence. The kind that shatters things.

“I just wanted to tell you myself,” I say. “We’ll be visiting. Please… be kind.”

And before they can hear the break in my voice, I end the call.

I hang up the phone. My hands are trembling. My jaw aches from smiling falsely.

Cristóbal steps forward and plucks the phone from my fingers like he’s accepting a gift.

“Well done,esposa,” he says with a glint in his eye. “You may have a future in acting after all.”

I say nothing. I just stare at the floor.

He leans in, breath hot against my ear, voice cold and sharp as broken glass.

“Keep up the good work, and you and the boy might just walk away from this whole thing with your hearts still beating.”

He walks toward the door, pauses, and adds, “Once the cartel bends to me fully… there’ll be no one left to challenge your little performance.”

Then he’s gone.

And for the first time in my life, I realize:

Survival has become my performance.

39

Chapter 30

Zasha

The room feels like a tomb as I pace in front of the main screen. On the loop, Mara walks out of JFK, head down, body hunched against the world. She looks smaller. Tired. Like something’s been drained from her, but she’s still forcing herself to stand.

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