Page 81 of Forbidden Fate

My choices.

Messy, complicated, possibly reckless, and definitely confusing choices.

But still mine.

Who am I to sit here and decide whether Mercedes or Esmeralda survived correctly?

Who am I to be weirded out by women doing what they had to do when I’ve done the same?

In Romania, I did what I had to for survival.

Different circumstances.

Different scale.

Same ugly truth underneath.

I used what men wanted from me because it was the only tool I had.

These women have done the same. At least they’ve turned it into something positive.

“I get it,” I say quietly.

Cruz turns his head toward me.

I don’t look at him.

Mercedes studies me across the table. “Do you?”

“I think so.”

Esmeralda smiles a little. “Most women do, sooner or later.”

28

CRUZ

For the first time since Robin and I escaped, I breathe.

Really breathe.

Not the kind of breath a man takes when he’s counting exits. Not the shallow drag of air that comes while listening for footsteps outside a locked door or calculating how many seconds it’ll take to get a gun out from under a jacket.

This is different.

This is warm.

The room smells like cinnamon, beans, old wood, and perfume that has soaked into the walls over years and years of women passing through it. Not expensive perfume. Not the sharp kind Adriana wears.

This is softer.

Powder. Soap. Vanilla. Roses past their bloom.

Home.

Esmeralda keeps smiling into her coffee as if she knows something I don’t. Mercedes is chatting with Robin. Señora V sits at the head of the table like the queen of a very strange monarchy, her dark eyes moving from face to face, missing nothing.

I sit here with these four women.