PROLOGUE
RACHEL
Seven Years Ago
Somewhere in Sinaloa, Mexico
The heat makes everything shimmer.
I stand outside the medical clinic, watching dust devils spiral across the dirt road, and wonder for the thousandth time what I'm doing here. Running. From the memory of Colton Stryker's empty side of the bed, from the note he left on his pillow, from the hollow ache inside me that won't fade no matter how many miles I put between myself and that Phoenix apartment.
Humanitarian aid work in rural Mexico seemed like the perfect escape. Purpose, distance, a way to heal others while I learned to heal myself.
The clinic door opens behind me. Dr. Reyes emerges, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief that's seen better days. "Rachel, we have a visitor. Someone who wants to discuss expanding our supply lines."
I turn to see a man in his late thirties approaching across the courtyard. Well-dressed but not ostentatious. Dark hair, easy smile, the kind of confidence that comes from knowing how to navigate difficult situations. He carries himself like someone used to being in charge but trying not to show it.
"Ms. Donovan?" He extends his hand. "I'm Mateo Ruiz. I coordinate logistics for several development projects in the region."
The handshake is warm and professional. Spanish flows from him flawlessly with the educated accent of someone who split time between Mexico City and American universities. Nothing about him raises red flags.
"Dr. Reyes mentioned you've been having trouble getting medical supplies through the usual channels," he continues. "I have connections that might help. No strings attached. Just trying to make sure good people can do good work."
I should be suspicious. Should ask more questions. But I'm tired and lonely and this man is offering exactly what the clinic needs.
"That would be wonderful," I hear myself say.
Mateo's smile widens. "Excellent. Perhaps we could discuss the details over dinner? There's a restaurant in town that actually has reliable electricity."
The dinner turns into two dinners. Then three. Mateo brings the supplies he promised. The clinic's shelves fill with antibiotics, bandages, and equipment we couldn't afford through official channels. When he asks about my life, he listens. Makes me laugh for the first time in months.
What he does beyond "logistics coordination" never comes up. How he can acquire medical supplies that even established NGOs struggle to source remains unexplained. I don't ask because asking means acknowledging the questions forming in the back of my mind.
I'm in love with him.
I know it's too fast, too soon after Colton. But Mateo makes me feel seen in ways Colton never did. Present when I need him. Available instead of vanishing for weeks on mysterious missions. Flowers appear on my desk. Questions about my day come with actual listening.
"Move in with me," he says one evening as we watch the sunset from his hacienda outside town. The property is beautiful in a way that should have raised even more red flags. Too isolated. Too well-guarded. Too expensive for someone who claims to coordinate development projects.
"I don't know," I say, even though I want to say yes. "We've only been together for?—"
"I love you, Rachel." His voice is steady and certain. "I want to build a life with you. A real life. Not sneaking around to different hotels, not pretending we're just colleagues when we're in town."
The words are everything I wanted to hear from Colton and never did.
"Yes," I whisper.
Moving into the hacienda means seeing what I've been deliberately ignoring. The armed men who patrol the property perimeter. The late-night phone calls Mateo takes in rapid Spanish I can't quite follow. Certain rooms, always locked. Visitors who arrive after dark and leave before dawn.
I tell myself it's security. This region is dangerous. Drug cartels operate in the mountains. A successful businessman needs protection.
The lies I tell myself are almost convincing.
I'm pregnant.
Mateo is thrilled in a way that makes my stomach clench. His hands spread over my still-flat belly with a possessiveness that feels different from love. Claiming. Marking.
"A son," he says with absolute certainty. "I know it will be a son."
