The same pesky butterflies that’d snuck into my stomach during our dance lessons broke free again. Only this time, I couldn’t blame it on the alcohol.
I was stone-cold sober, and I—
“Mr. Castillo, Ms. Kensington, would you like something to drink before we serve lunch?” Our attendant’s smooth voice tossed a bucket of ice water over the moment.
The tension fizzled with an inaudible pop as Xavier and I yanked our gazes apart.
“Water.” His smile looked forced. “Thank you, Petra.” “Same.” I cleared my throat of its hoarseness. “Thank you.”
We ate our lunch in silence. However, even though we didn’t discuss our pasts again, a sense of connection lingered.
Xavier and I weren’t the first or last people to miss a parent. But the way we responded to our losses, and the masks we presented to the world…perhaps we were more similar than we realized.
CHAPTER 12
Xavier
Thanks to the time difference, we arrived in Bogotá before noon.
My father’s driver was already waiting when we landed, and he whisked us through the city’s winding roads and densely packed neighborhoods with enviable skill.
I was born in Colombia but educated abroad my entire life. I spent more time in the halls of boarding schools than I did at home, and I’d only visited my birthplace twice since my father was diagnosed with cancer last year.
The first had been after the diagnosis. The second had been right before my Miami birthday trip, when he’d summoned and berated me for failing to “uphold the family legacy” while he was dying.
If there was one person who’d use their illness to manipulate other people into doing what they wanted, it was Alberto Castillo. “Xavier.” Sloane’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “We’re here.”
I blinked, the pastel haze from the streets morphing into twin guardhouses and fully armed security personnel. Behind the black iron gates, a familiar white mansion rose three stories high, crowned by red tiles and latticed windows.
“Home sweet home.” Sarcasm threaded my words, but a sick feeling stirred in my stomach as we walked inside.
Decades-old smoke clung to the walls, making me nauseous.
My mother had died here. She’d burned alive right on this plot of land, and instead of moving, my father had rebuilt the house right over her deathplace.
People said he wanted to stay close to her in his own morbid way, but I knew the truth. It was his way of punishing me and making sure I never forgot who the real villain was in this house. “You don’t have to stay here,” I told Sloane. Her clean, crisp scent drifted over me, masking echoes of the smoke. “I’ll be happy to book you a suite at the Four Seasons.”
Sloane had visited the Bogotá house before for work, but beneath the shine and luxury, heaviness shrouded the mansion’s foundation. I couldn’t be the only one who felt it.
“Trying to kick me out already? That’s record timing.” “You’ll be more comfortable at a hotel.” We passed by a giant oil portrait of my father. He glared down at us, his face stern and disapproving. “That’s all I meant.”
“Maybe. But I’d rather be here.” Sloane stared straight ahead, her stride purposeful, but warmth flickered in my chest all the same. She was prickly, uptight, and as cuddly as a cactus. Yet somehow, she had a way of making even the worst situations more tolerable.
However, the warmth hardened into ice when we entered my father’s room. His staff had transformed it into a private hospital suite complete with the latest medical technology, a twenty-four-hour rotation of nurses and attendants (all of whom signed ironclad NDAs), and the best care money could buy.
But that was the thing about death—it came for everyone. Young and old, rich and poor, good and evil. It was life’s greatest equalizer.
And it was clear that, despite Alberto Castillo’s billions, he was standing at death’s door.
Conversation vanished when the room’s occupants noticed me. My father was the second youngest of two sisters and one brother. They were all gathered here along with my cousins, the family doctor, the family lawyer, and various attendants.
Eduardo was the only one who stepped toward me, but he halted when I approached my father’s bedside.
The carpet was so thick it muffled even the slightest noise from my footsteps. I might as well have been a ghost, gliding soundlessly to where my father lay with his eyes closed, his frail frame hooked up to a mass of tubes and monitors.
In perfect health, he was a titan both in reputation and appearance. He dominated any room he walked into and was equal parts feared and revered, even by his competitors. But over the past year, he’d withered into a husk of himself. He’d lost so much weight he was almost unrecognizable, and his olive skin resembled ashen wax beneath the sheets.
A rope snaked through my chest, winding tighter and tighter— “He made it through the night.” Dr. Cruz came up beside me, his voice pitched low so only I could hear him. “That’s a positive sign.”
I didn’t take my eyes off the motionless form before me. “But?” Dr. Cruz had been with my family since I was born. Tall and reedy, he resembled a swarthy beanstalk with silver hair and a prominent nose, but he was the best doctor in the country.
However, there were some things even the best doctor couldn’t hide, and I knew him well enough to pick up on the hesitation rolling off him.
“His situation remains critical. Of course, we’ll take care of him the best we can, but…I’m glad you arrived when you did.”
Meaning my father’s passing was inevitable, and soon.
The rope pulled tauter. I wanted to reach inside and tear it out. I wanted to run away from this fucking house and never come back. I wanted peace, once and for all.
But I didn’t say any of that to Dr. Cruz when I mumbled a generic reply, or to Eduardo when he came up to embrace me, or to my aunts and uncles and cousins, half of whom were here solely for their cut of my father’s fortune.
The only person who didn’t smother me with pity or concern was Sloane. She stood by the door, respectful of the family’s privacy but staying close enough in case anyone needed anything. When my father passed, she would be the one crafting the press statement and media strategy. Knowing her, she’d already started both.
Regular families buried the dead and grieved. Families like mine had to issue press statements.
Here lies Alberto Castillo, shitty father and guilt tripper extraordinaire. He was emotionally abusive and wished his only son had died, but man, he was a hell of a businessman.
