Page 24 of Convenient Vows

“Cristóbal.”

The name hits me like a sharp crack to the ribs.

Cristóbal.

I keep my face smooth, my eyes forward, but inside, every sense locks onto that name like a weapon snapping into place.

I listen.

The voice on the other end is sharp, agitated — even through the low murmur, I can pick up the tone, the edge, the demanding undercurrent.

“Where the hell have you been, Xiomara?”

Her voice softens, dipping into something careful, almost apologetic.

“I’m busy, Cristóbal. I’ll call you back.”

“Busy with what?” the voice bites. “You’ve been—”

“Cristóbal,” she says, a firmer note slipping in. “Later.”

She hangs up swiftly, exhaling softly, fingers lingering a moment on the phone before she slides it back into her purse.

The warmth between us — the soft undercurrent that’s been weaving through the night — flickers and dies. The car fills with a cooler, heavier silence. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, feeling the sharp grind of possessiveness uncoil deep in my chest, unwelcome and undeniable.

Who the hell is Cristóbal? A friend? A confidant? Something more? And what claim does he have over her?

I remind myself this should be none of my concern — that this marriage is going to be fake and temporary. That I’m meant to be her exit to freedom, and not to covet her.

But the thought to deal with this caller keeps circling, darker and sharper with every passing mile.

I glance sideways at her — at the way she stares out the window, her expression distant, her brow faintly furrowed.

I wonder if she feels the shift.

If she knows I’m already recalculating, already filing away the name, the tone, the tension — already deciding that no one, no matter how long they’ve known her, no matter what place they think they hold, will interfere.

When we pull up in front of the Delgado estate, I step out silently, circling to her door.

She looks up as I open it, her expression smoothing back into practiced grace.

“Thank you for tonight,” she says softly.

I nod once, cool and composed on the surface.

But inside, everything is burning.

She steps out, her perfume brushing faintly against me as she passes, her delicate peach dress catching the porch light.

I watch her ascend the steps, slipping back into her world, her walls, her name.

My jaw tightens, hands balling faintly at my sides.

Cristóbal.

The name echoes again in my head, dark and heavy.

As I slide back into the car and pull away, the road blurring ahead of me, I know one thing for certain. This arrangement just got more complicated. Because Mara Delgado isn’t just an alliance anymore, she’s already becoming a war I’m not sure I can win.

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