I wipe my face with the back of my free hand. Wyatt pretends not to notice.
This doesn’t fix anything. Doesn’t undo five years of conditioning, of learning to crave violence, of becoming something I still don’t fully recognize. Vicente’s apology doesn’t erase the nights I woke up reaching for him, or the shame that followed when I remembered who I was reaching for.
But it’s said. It’s real. It’s on the record.
Vicente Amador admitted, out loud, on camera, that what he did to me was abuse.
And somehow, impossibly, that matters.
58
Chris
On screen, Nina reaches for the tissue box on the side table, repositioning it closer to Vicente. He doesn’t take one. Just wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and squares his shoulders, reassembling himself into something more composed.
But I catch the way Nina’s hand lingers on the box for a moment. The slight tension in her jaw. She’s hearing all of this too, every word Vicente said about ownership and control, every implicit detail about what he did to me. And it’s costing her.
I glance at Wyatt. His eyes are fixed on the screen, but there’s a tightness around his mouth that wasn’t there before. His thumb has stopped moving against my knuckles. He’s just holding on now, steady pressure, like he’s anchoring himself as much as me.
They feel this. Both of them. Not just as observers, not just as people who love me—they feel it in their own bodies, their own hearts. The damage done to me damages them too.
I don’t know why that surprises me. But it does.
Nina clears her throat softly and steers the conversation forward.
“And the household? How are things settling now that you’re back from the hospital?”
Vicente and Arturo exchange a look.
“There’s been progress,” Vicente says carefully. “Rafael’s doing, mostly. He has a gift for negotiating between hostile parties.”
“He’s a lawyer,” Arturo adds. “International law. Apparently mediating between cartel bosses and housekeepers falls under the same skill set.”
“Elena sat with me,” Vicente says. “In the hospital. After the surgery.” He stops. Swallows. “She sat with me. Didn’t say anything. Just sat there for an hour, then left.”
“That’s significant,” Nina says.
“It’s everything.” Vicente’s voice roughens. “I kidnapped her daughter. I terrorized her family. I moved into her home and disrupted thirty years of the life she’d built. She has every right to hate me until the day I die.” He pauses. “And she sat with me anyway.”
“The truce is fragile,” Arturo says. “But it’s real. More than I expected. More than either of us deserves.”
Wyatt shifts beside me, checking his watch. I know what he’s thinking—I have an appointment in less than an hour, and the drive across town won’t be quick.
But I’m not ready to leave yet. Not quite.
On screen, Nina is steering the conversation toward Toni—Elena’s daughter, the one he kidnapped. Arturo’s hand finds Vicente’s knee, steadying.
I was there. I was the one who grabbed Toni from the tattoo convention and delivered her to him. Then her boyfriend showed up with a hero complex and no plan, demanding I take him too. Kid had balls, I’ll give him that—storming the castle to save the woman he loved with nothing but audacity and a burner phone.
“She’s agreed to come for Christmas,” Vicente says on screen. “Celeste’s doing, not mine. But she’ll be there.”
“That’s progress,” Nina says.
“Progress.” Vicente’s laugh is hollow. “I terrorized that girl. Used her as bait to lure Celeste to me.” He shakes his head. “I wanted an heir so badly. Someone to carry on what I’d built. I thought if I could just get Celeste in a room, make her understand what I was offering?—”
“You thought you could force it,” Nina says.
“Yes.” The word comes out rough. “I’ve spent my whole life forcing things. Taking what I wanted. It never occurred to me that an heir who comes willingly is worth more than one who comes in chains.”
