I shut it down. I’m well practiced. Wanting things for myself has always been a luxury I can’t afford, and right now, the cost of wanting is measured in Anna’s safety and my own survival. Attraction is just one more thing to file away undernot for you.
“Thank you. There’s enough for two.” I turn back to the pan, flipping the vegetables with more focus than the task requires. “Fair warning, I’m not exactly a chef. But it’s hot and it’s food.”
“Sold.” He crosses to the island and sits down, moving carefully. Slower than someone without bruised ribs, but steadier than this morning.
I dish up two plates. The portions are thin, but the bamboo shoots and baby corn stretch it enough to pass for a real meal. I set his plate in front of him and take the seat at the far end of the counter.
“So,” he says, stabbing a piece of baby corn with his fork, “since my conversational repertoire currently consists of ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I can’t remember,’ you’re going to have to carry us.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. It sounds strange in this kitchen. Unfamiliar. I don’t think I’ve laughed in this house before today.
“You want me to talk about myself?”
“You did pull me off a beach and patch me up. I’m curious about the woman behind the rescue operation.”
I push a piece of pepper around my plate, buying time. Every word I say to this man is a calculation, even if he doesn’t know it. My father’s rules were specific before he sent me here: no one finds out who you are, where you’re from, what family you belong to.
The consequences for slipping aren’t mine to pay. They’re Anna’s.
My mother died bringing me into the world, and Anna is the one who stepped in—braided my hair, sang me to sleep, told me I was brave when nothing in my life gave me reason to believe it.
My former nanny has Alzheimer’s now. On her bad days, she doesn’t know my name. She lives in a facility my father pays for, and he made the terms very clear before I left Vegas. If I run, if I make noise, if I do anything to jeopardize his plans, he pulls the funding. Immediately. The facility discharges her within seventy-two hours.
That’s the leash. Not a guard at my door. Not a lock on my window. Just the knowledge that if I step out of line, the only person who ever truly loved me loses everything.
And it works. Every time.
“I’m on vacation.” I keep my voice light and easy. “Getting some distance from family stuff.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He says it simply, and the sincerity in his expression catches me off guard. Most people ask follow-ups because they want gossip, not because they care. He just waits.
“It’s nothing dramatic. Just the usual family politics.” I shrug and take a bite, chewing slowly. “It’ll sort itself out.”
It won’t. It will end the way my father has already decided it will end: with me on a plane to Bogotá in a white dress, the ribbon on a deal between two criminal empires.
“Yeah?” He lifts a brow. Not pushing, but not buying it either. “You’re making a face.”
I blink. “What kind of face?”
“Like you just bit into something rotten.”
“It’s really not important.” I steer us away from the cliff edge, forcing a smile. “Certainly not more important than your situation. Let’s just say there’s something I need to deal with when I go home, and I’m not looking forward to it.”
He nods slowly, accepting the redirect. “Sure. Family can be… difficult. That feels familiar, actually. Like I know what you mean, even if I can’t pull up a specific example.” He takes another bite, chews thoughtfully. “For what it’s worth, if the family stuff gets too heavy, you could always tell them a strange man with no memory showed up and you’re too busy playing nurse to come home. Nobody argues with that level of chaos.”
His elbow nudges mine. Light, playful, nothing. But the warmth of the contact buzzes through me, and I’m so starved for casual human touch that even that graze feels like a gift.
The grin he gives me is so effortless, so disarming, that something in me cracks loose. Like a window opening in a house that’s been sealed shut.
Nobody talks to me like this. Nobody teases me, or asks me questions, or listens to the answers like they actually care. In my father’s house, conversations have agendas. Words are leverage. Every interaction is a transaction where someone always owes something afterward.
“Anyway.” He sets his fork down. “Thank you. Again. Seriously. I don’t think everyone would’ve done what you did.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep meaning it.”
My throat tightens, and I look away before the rest of my face catches up. “You’re welcome.”
