Chapter 3-Maya
Four months pregnant.
And according to my pregnancy tracker app, he’s the size of an avocado.
The words still feel unreal when I whisper them to myself in the mirror at night.
Mid-August, and Montclair has become my hiding place.
Not too far from New York City, but far enough that no one thinks to look for me here.
I rent a tiny apartment over a bar, the kind of place where the smell of spilled beer clings to the floorboards no matter how many times you mop.
The neon sign outside my window buzzes and flickers, keeping me up most nights, but at least it’s mine.
A roof, four walls, and anonymity.
On the lease, I’m Maya White—White for Blanco. Safer that way.
My father isn’t the type to give up once he’s decided what’s best for me, and he’d drag me back home in a heartbeat if he knew.
But here, I’m pretty much invisible.
Just another face in the crowd.
It doesn’t even dawn on me to hide from Rico.
Why would it? He won’t be looking for me. Not when he has the heartbreakingly beautiful Lucy Volkov as his new muse.
The tabloids call them La Diablita and El Tigre, like some fairytale pairing made for the cameras.
And maybe it is.
Maybe he really loves her the way he swore he loved me.
The thought twists in my chest, but I force myself to breathe past it.
The farmers’ market was crowded today— the last rush before the season shifts.
I stood in line longer than I should have, but I’ve been craving peaches.
The woman at the stand said it was the last of the crop, and I bought more than I can possibly eat before they rot.
I carried the bag home like it was treasure.
Now, sitting by the cracked window, I bite into one— sweet, sticky juice running down my wrist —and press my other hand against the soft swell of my belly.
Fall is coming. It’s my favorite time of year.
The leaves will turn, the air will sharpen, and by this time next year, I won’t be alone.
I’ll have my son.
You can’t really tell I’m pregnant yet. To the rest of the world, I look the way I’ve always looked—soft, round.
Pleasantly plump , but I hate that phrase.
People think it’s kinder. It’s not.
But I’ve heard worse. Fat , when the whispers aren’t as generous.
But I know. I feel it in every flutter of exhaustion, every strange craving, every brush of my hand over the life growing inside me.
And for the first time, I don’t feel ashamed of my body. Because it’s not just mine anymore.
It’s working at growing my baby, so yeah, I have learned to love it these past few months. And I think I understand the whole body positive movement a bit better.
To all the naysayers thinking it’s about ignoring health risks—grow up. No one asked you. And you know what? Skinny people have health problems, too. That’s just biology.
But I am done apologizing for taking up more space. For being bigger. For being squishier.
If you don’t like it, don’t look. But this body is responsible for my child, so I love it.
And yes, I will do everything I can to keep myself balanced. To be healthy. To make sure I am ready for the responsibility and the absolute honor of being a mother to my child.
But how I look is no one’s business.
That I’m finally able to admit that, to own that? Well, it’s the best damn affirmation of my life.
I peel off my jeans and tug one of my oversized T-shirts over my head, the cotton soft and worn thin.
Nights are always the hardest.
It’s when the world slows down and there’s no one but me and the whisper of fears I can’t quite silence.
I brush my teeth, run a hand through my messy bun, and try to ignore the constant low hum of the bar below.
Laughter, music, the occasional shouted argument— it all bleeds through the floorboards.
I tell myself I chose this place because it’s noisy enough to drown out my thoughts.
But tonight, the sound that pulls me upright isn’t coming from the bar.
It’s footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful.
On the hallway stairs.
I freeze, every nerve in my body going rigid.
No one ever comes up here.
I never remember to lock my door— stupid habit I can’t seem to break —but who would even bother with a crummy apartment over a whiskey bar?
A dozen terrible possibilities slam into me at once— my father’s men, a stranger from the bar, some drunk who climbed the wrong stairs.
My pulse hammers in my throat as I move fast, bare feet slapping against the warped wood floor, heart pounding hard enough to make me dizzy.
I reach the door just as the knob turns.
The hinges groan, the door swings open, and I suck in a sharp breath, ready to scream—and there he is.
Rico.
El Tigre.
The man I swore I’d never see again.
He fills the doorway, larger than life even in the dim light spilling from the hallway.
Tattoos creeping up his arms, jaw tight, eyes locked on me like he’s just seen a ghost.
For a second, neither of us moves.
My brain short-circuits, stunned, torn between rage and relief, heartbreak and the bone-deep longing that never really went away.
“Maya,” he breathes, my name soft but ragged, like a prayer and a curse all at once.
And all I can do is stand there, frozen, one hand instinctively pressing against the small swell of my belly, as my entire world tilts on its axis.
“Maya!”
His shout sounds like it’s coming at me from underwater, muffled and distant, even though he’s right in front of me.
My knees buckle before I even realize I’m falling. The linoleum floor rushes up to meet me—but I never hit it.
Instead, I crash against something solid, something hot and alive. Rico.
His arms lock around me, strong and unyielding, like he’s been waiting months for this moment.
The world tilts, and then I’m rising—he’s lifting me, carrying me like I weigh nothing, cradling me against his chest as if I might break.
“Chuy, get the car started!” His voice is sharp, commanding, threaded with panic.
“Wait,” I manage, breathless, clutching at his shirt. “I—I’ll be okay in a second.”
But Rico doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t listen.
This man! He doesn’t ever listen.
His stride is relentless, pounding down the narrow staircase, my body jostling against his as though he’ll never let me out of his grip again.
The cool night air slams into us, and then there’s a flash of headlights. A black SUV, sleek and dangerous, idling at the curb.
Rico yanks open the back door with one hand and slides in with me still clutched tight against him.
I’m deposited gently— too gently —into the leather seat, but his presence doesn’t leave. My head is swimming, breath is shaky. I suddenly have zero ability to move at all.
But he’s right there, hands sure and steady as he fastens the seatbelt across my lap, knuckles brushing my skin. My heart lurches in my chest.
“Take us to the hospital. Now,” he barks.
“What? No!” I snap, finding some hidden reservoirs of strength and shoving at his chest, though it’s like trying to move a mountain. “I don’t need a hospital. I’m fine!”
His eyes flare, wild and furious, his accent sharpening as he spits out, “You’re not fine, Maya. You just passed the fuck out in front of me. Are you sick? Have you seen a doctor? Is that why you ran? Por qué carajo no me dijiste? If you’re sick?—”
He switches fully into Spanish, words flying too fast for me to catch every one.
A rush of syllables, beautiful and angry, spilling out of him like a song too raw to control.
And God help me, even now, even like this, it’s hot as hell.
His voice, the fierce way he says my name, the desperate edge underneath the fury—it makes my body remember every night in his bed.
“Oh my God, just stop!” I explode, clutching the seatbelt across me, shaking with adrenaline. “Be quiet for five minutes, Rico! I’m not dying—I’m pregnant, you asshole!”
The words rip out of me, sharp and unplanned, echoing like gunfire inside the SUV.
Silence slams down so hard it rings in my ears.
His mouth falls open.
His hands freeze where they’ve been gripping the seat beside me like claws.
Those dark, endless eyes of his— El Tigre’s eyes —stare at me with something I’ve never seen before.
Not heat. Not fury. Not even heartbreak.
It’s shock. Pure, brutal shock.
And for the first time since I walked away from him, Rico Véliz is speechless.