Wrapped in legacy and politics and the Solano name.
I force my lungs to keep working. “I need to see him.”
“He’s busy,” she answers, mouth curving like she enjoys saying it.
“With what?” I ask. “Damage control? Or rehearsal for your little wedding?”
Her jaw tightens slightly, so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it. But I’ve watched her long enough to know every crack matters.
“You have no idea what you’ve done to him,” she says softly.
I laugh under my breath, sharp and ugly. “I’ve done?”
“He hasn’t slept properly in weeks,” Carmen continues, voice smooth, conversational, like she’s gossiping with a friend.“He’s been wrecked over you. Snapping at his own men. Making reckless decisions.”
My heart stutters like it still belongs to him, like it forgets my pride exists.
Carmen sees the microsecond shift in my face and lets herself smile, faint and satisfied.
“You’re destabilizing him,” she says, leaning closer by a fraction. “You’re going to get him killed. And that makes you dangerous.”
“Or maybe,” I fire back, my voice tightening, “I’m the only thing in his life that’s real.”
The space around us changes.
Conversations stall mid-sentence. A prospect pauses with a tray of shot glasses, eyes flicking between us like he wants front-row seats.
Carmen doesn’t look away. She likes an audience. She likes control. She likes knowing the room is listening.
“You think he’ll choose you over legacy?” she asks quietly. “Over my bloodline? Over the Solano name that keeps this club protected when the city starts sniffing around?”
“You’re not married,” I say, letting the words cut.
Her eyes go sharp, a flash of real emotion crossing her face before she smooths it away. “Marriage is strategic,” she replies. “Love is weakness.”
“You don’t even love him?” I laugh out. “You sure about that?” I ask, because her voice is too steady for a woman who doesn’t care.
“I love him more than you could ever understand, la puta.” Her gaze drifts over me again, slow this time.Not checking bruises. Checking cracks. “You look tired,” she murmurs. “Has the fantasy worn off?”
Heat crawls up my spine and I hate that she can smell weakness like a dog smells fear.
“I’m not here for you,” I say.
“You’re always here because of me,” she corrects, and the way she says it makes my skin crawl. Like I’m not a person. Just a symptom.
The image of my apartment hits me hard, the shredded cushions, the open fridge, the empty cage tipped sideways like a joke. I taste copper again, not from blood, from panic.
My mouth moves before caution can stop it.
“Did you break into my apartment?”
The question slices through the room.
Heads turn fully now. A few Saints shift their stance, tension rising like heat.
Carmen doesn’t blink. “Excuse me?”
“White rose,” I say, locking my gaze on hers. “Cute touch.”
