Chapter 23-Maya
“Yeah?” I ask into the speaker.
“Mrs. Véliz, there’s someone here to see you,” the guard replies, his voice crackling faintly.
“Oh? Who?”
“Says he’s your father.”
My eyebrows shoot sky high.
My father.
It’s been months— closer to a year —since I’ve spoken to him. Since I ran from his shadow and tried to carve out a life that was mine and not tied to Alberto Gold, music mogul .
I don’t necessarily like him.
He’s manipulative. Controlling. Cold.
But he’s still my father. And for all the bitterness between us, I can’t forget that.
My stomach tightens— not from the baby this time, but from nerves.
“Um,” I hesitate, chewing on my lip, my pulse picking up.
“Let him up.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
And as I pull back from the panel, my heart pounds harder. Because whatever my father is doing here, it’s not random. Alberto Gold never does anything without a reason.
And I have no idea if I’m ready to face it.
Minutes tick by quickly, but it’s enough time for me to pull myself together. By the time the private elevator dings and slides open, I’ve got my armor in place— chin up, smile just shy of polite.
My father steps out like he owns the building.
Italian linen suit, pressed and crisp.
Sunglasses indoors.
Too many gold chains and bracelets jangling against his tanned skin.
Nearly seventy and my father is still dressing like a pimp who lost his way on the Vegas strip.
“Maya!”
“Dad,” I murmur, the word dry in my throat.
He strides up and gives me that half hug-pat thing he’s perfected— more of a performance than affection —and I step back almost immediately, plastering on a fake smile.
We stand awkwardly for a moment, then I remember my manners.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, my voice carefully neutral.
“Sure. Scotch?”
“It’s eleven a.m.”
He grins, shark-like. “Okay, scotch and soda.”
I just shake my head and lead him into the living room, where the little mini bar sits gleaming. Ice clinks in the glass as I pour, my back to him, giving myself those few precious seconds to breathe.
I hand him his drink and pour myself a seltzer with a slice of fresh lemon floating in the top.
He eyes it, unimpressed, but takes a sip. Then his gaze sweeps over me, sharp, assessing.
“You look different,” he says finally.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you were always plump, Maya, but you're bigger than I recall.”
My stomach drops.
My chest tightens.
“Did you come all the way across town to see if I was still fat, Dad? I could’ve sent you a picture,” I reply.
I have no idea where my sass is coming from, but I like it.
“What? No! But the rumors are true, then? That punk sonovabitch knocked you up?”
And there it is.
The real reason he’s here.
I let out a short laugh with no humor in it.
“Always straight to business with you, Dad. Not even a congratulations ?”
He waves his hand like the word is beneath him.
“I don’t do congratulations, Maya. I do reality.
And reality is, you’ve tied yourself to some hotheaded singer with more temper than brains.
But lucky for you,” he says and leans back, flashing his teeth, “I’m willing to bring him into the fold.
Gold Records could be good for someone like him. Big sound. Big numbers. Big money.”
The offer hangs heavy in the air.
For a split second, I see the wheels turning in his head— the same way he’s sized up every artist, every contract, every deal in his empire .
He’s not here for me. Or the baby, whom he clearly knows about— his grandson.
He’s here for Rico.
“No,” I say, firm and fast, the word snapping sharp in the quiet of the condo.
My father’s brows shoot up, his mouth twisting like he’s not sure if I’ve lost my mind or grown a spine he can’t snap.
“No? Do you have any idea how many people would kill for a contract with me?!”
“That might be so,” I reply, my voice steady even as my heart pounds, “but you’re asking me about a deal for El Tigre . And the answer is absolutely not.”
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing.
“Let Rico speak for himself, Maya.”
Before I can answer, another voice cuts through the room like a blade.
“Oh, I can do that, Mr. Gold,” Rico growls, deep and sure. “But my wife can, too. See I’m not El Tigre. That’s a stage name. A brand. And me and Maya? We’re partners. In that and everything else we choose to do.”
I whip my head around just as Rico strides into the living room, black fire in his eyes, golden heat in his smile.
He’s holding a bouquet of pink tulips— my favorite —and before I can even process the sight, he crushes his mouth to mine.
The kiss is hard, hungry, claiming.
He doesn’t even glance at my father.
“I missed you, Songbird,” he whispers against my lips.
“Me too,” I murmur back, grinning through the fierce press of his kiss.
He kisses me again, longer this time, a deliberate show that makes my father clear his throat.
“Look, Rico, you don’t have to convince me you love Maya. I don’t care about that,” my father snaps, though his tone is thinner now, less certain. “But I’m giving you this offer one time only?—”
“And that just makes you a shitty father. But I believe my wife answered you already,” Rico cuts in, his arm snaking around my waist as he pulls me close, anchoring me against his side.
His voice is steel wrapped in fire as he glares at my dad.
“Rico’s finally free. He doesn’t need you, your contracts, or your claws in him. We’re doing this our way.”
The air feels charged, heavy with something old and raw.
For a moment, I see the two men facing off— my father with his empire, my husband with nothing but his conviction and love for me —and I know without a doubt whose side I’m on.
My father studies me for a long, tense moment. Then he exhales, some of the bravado slipping away like a mask cracking. His shoulders sag just slightly.
When he speaks again, his voice is softer, gentler. Almost human.
“You always were your mother’s girl,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Stubborn as hell. Maybe that’s a good thing.”
He looks down at the drink in his hand, then back up at me, eyes strangely tired.
“I know I was a shit dad. I know that. But maybe?”
His lips twitch, uncertain, like he’s not sure he deserves to say it.
“Maybe I can meet my grandkid sometime.”
The words knock the breath out of me.
For a heartbeat, I don’t see the mogul. Don’t see the caricature in his linen suit, dripping in chains like a man desperate to be seen.
I see what he was supposed to be. My father.
I swallow hard, pressing my hand to my belly, feeling the reassuring kick of life beneath my palm.
“Maybe,” I whisper, voice shaking but sure. “We’ll see.”
Rico’s hand squeezes my waist, firm and grounding, and I lean into him, into us.
And when my father’s smile flickers— small, tired, almost real —I wonder, just for a second, if Alberto Gold actually meant what he said.
Only time will tell, but I won’t waste any of mine wondering about it—or about him. My father made his bed a long time ago, and I’m done trying to crawl under the covers with his ghosts.
Besides, I have everything I want right here.
Rico’s arms wrapped around me.
His warmth cradling me and the baby I’m growing.
His love pressed to me like armor.
“I hate to rush this, but my wife needs to rest, Mr. Gold,” Rico says firmly, his lips brushing my temple before he leads my father to the door.
“Congratulations, Rico. Maya,” my father says before parting, and the softness in his voice surprises me.
But then the elevator doors close, and the tension drains from the room.
A few seconds later, Rico is back. He doesn’t hesitate— doesn’t even pause .
He crosses the living room in three long strides, sweeps me right off my feet like I weigh nothing.
“What are you doing? I’m too heavy!” I protest, laughing breathlessly against his chest.
He shoots me a look that melts my insides. “Not for me, Songbird. Never for me.”
And then, lower, his voice turning molten. “Now, you have to rest before we get ready to leave tonight. And I know just how to make you relax.”
My breath hitches.
His dark eyes glitter with promises, heat pooling low in my belly until my thighs press together instinctively.
“Yeah?” I whisper, half-daring, half-needy.
“Yes, Wife.” His mouth curves, wicked and reverent all at once. “Now you just lie down here and be a good little girl, while I make you feel better.”
He lays me down on the cool sheets of our bed and takes his time peeling me out of the soft T-shirt and shorts I’d been lounging in.
His rough hands slide over my curves, reverent, possessive, his touch both gentle and greedy.
Every brush of his fingers makes me tingle, my body coming alive under his worship.
“Rico.” My voice is already shaking.
He smiles, low and dangerous, then settles between my thighs, his big hands curling around them, spreading me wide open for him.
The sight alone makes me whimper.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in his universe. “My goddess. My Songbird. Mine.”
Then his mouth— that talented, perfect fucking mouth —is on me.
Hot, wet, devastating.
His tongue flicks over my clit, slow at first, deliberate, and the tension in my body unravels instantly. I arch into him, gasping, my hands fisting the sheets.
He groans against me like he’s the one being fed, like my pleasure is his sustenance.
“Rico!” I cry, hips bucking when he latches on harder, sucking, tasting, teasing until I’m trembling all over.
He grips me tighter, holding me open, his tongue stroking me in long, devastating sweeps before diving lower, lapping at my slick folds, circling back to my clit until I’m keening his name.
It’s worship.
Raw and unashamed.
And as the pressure builds higher, as my body sings for him, one thought flashes through my mind.
This man will give me everything I need.
And he’ll take me apart with his mouth until I believe it.
Then he’s moving, climbing up over me with that predator’s grace, pushing his pants down just far enough to free his long, thick, glorious cock.
My mouth waters at the sight of him, veins bulging, tip slick with need. My body clenches around nothing, already aching for him.
“Ready for me, Songbird?” he grunts, his lips shining with the evidence of my orgasm. The sight alone nearly makes me come again.
I nod frantically, desperate, panting.
“Yes. Oh God, yes.”
He fits the thick head of his cock to my slippery entrance and presses in slow, relentless.
My back arches, my breath catching as inch by inch, he fills me. Stretching me wide, owning me in a way that makes my eyes roll back.
When he bottoms out, deep inside me, my body quivers, so full of him I can hardly breathe.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his big hands gripping my hips, hauling me up until I’m practically sitting on his lap.
His cock buries deeper still, nudging every nerve ending I own.
Then he moves.
He slams me down onto him, thrusting up from beneath me, ramming his cock into me over and over until the bed shakes and I’m clawing at his shoulders.
“Oh my God—oh, fuck!” I cry out, each thrust knocking the air from my lungs.
“That’s it, Wife,” he growls, sweat dripping down his temples, his muscles straining as he pounds me harder. “Squeeze my dick with your tight pussy. Show me how much you love it when I fill you.”
“Rico!” My voice breaks on his name, high and desperate, my walls clenching around him like a vice.
He groans deep in his chest, his hips snapping harder, his cock stroking that perfect spot inside me again and again until sparks explode behind my eyes.
“You feel that?” he pants, kissing me hard, messy, biting at my lips. “That’s mine. This pussy is mine, Maya. Say it.”
“It’s yours!” I scream, nails digging into his back. “Always yours!”
My orgasm hits like a storm, ripping through me, my body convulsing around him.
I sob his name, tears leaking from my eyes as he fucks me through it, relentless, demanding every ounce of pleasure.
He doesn’t let up until his own climax barrels through him. He roars, hips slamming deep one final time as he spills inside me, heat flooding my womb.
He clutches me to his chest, shaking with the force of it, his teeth gritted, his breath ragged.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our hearts, our breaths, the sweat cooling on our skin.
He kisses my temple, his voice low, reverent, possessive.
“My wife. My Songbird. Mine forever.”
And God help me, I’ve never felt so completely, utterly his.