The voice of a man who had just concluded a business deal.
“We’ll be married on Saturday.”
A beat.
“So you can move into my house immediately.”
My mind stalled.
“Sir...” I blinked uselessly into the darkness. “Today is Friday.”
I swallowed.
“You mean next Saturday?”
“If you can spend seven days away from her, we’ll do it next week.”
My stomach dropped.
A step sounded closer. “But we both know you can’t.”
His voice lowered. “So I meant tomorrow.”
My jaw dropped slightly.
For a moment, I genuinely forgot how to respond.
Tomorrow.
Marriage.
To a man I barely understood.
To a man the world whispered about like a warning disguised as a name.
Rafael “El Mencho” Pérez.
My pulse hammered harder.
This wasn’t just fast—it was violent in its urgency.
My hands clenched at my sides so tightly my nails bit into my palms, grounding me back into the present with sharp, physical pain.
“Tomorrow...” I repeated quietly.
The word tasted foreign.
But there was no point fighting anymore.
Not when every path led to the same choice.
Not when the only thing waiting on the other side of refusal was losing the child who had become the center of my world.
“Wise choice.”
I stood very still.
I lifted my chin slightly toward where I sensed him standing.
