CHAPTER 32
MIA
Yellow hair, green eyes, a pretty face, a soft-spoken voice, calm energy —lonely like me. Zane. I miss him.
It consumes me, this ache. It’s all I think about. When I wake up, when I practice Spanish like Paulina told me to, when I read, when I eat. Zane.
“Mia,” the voice breaks through the fog in my mind, and I blink, snapping out of my trance.
I look up from my coloring book in the garden, a habit I’ve kept, even after realizing that what I created in my head brought me peace, calm.
The picture I’m coloring—a face, a man doll—yellow hair, green eyes, pink lips, flushed cheeks.
Exactly like him. Exactly how I imagine him in my head.
“Mia,” the voice calls again, sharper this time.
I turn slowly to face Dr. Easton Icaza. My chest tightens. I hate him. Everything about his presence makes something deep inside me scream to run. But I smile.
“Doctor.” My voice is steady, but it trembles underneath, longing too hard to keep hidden.
Dr. Icaza’s eyes narrow as he observes me, his gaze calculating and cold. I can feel the weight of his presence, like an iron chain wrapping itself around my chest, pulling at me.
He takes a step forward, his polished shoes making a sound that echoes too loudly in the silence. The garden feels smaller, more suffocating.
“I’ve been calling you for a while,” he says, his voice clipped, almost impatient. He leans in slightly, as though trying to read something beneath my carefully constructed calm. “You’re zoning out again. It’s not healthy.”
I can barely hear him over the rushing of my blood in my ears.
All I can think about is Zane. His face, his laugh, the way his eyes used to soften when they found mine. It’s so vivid, so real in my mind that it almost hurts, like a deep, unhealable wound. And yet, here I am, trapped in this reality, trying to hold on to the fragments of a life that was never mine to begin with.
“I’m fine, Doctor,” I say, my voice coming out smoother than I feel. “Just… lost in thought.”
His lip curls in something that might be amusement, but I don’t care. I want him gone. I want this moment to stop, to rewind, to let me live in that beautiful illusion where Zane still exists, where the world is mine to shape.
“Lost in thought,” he repeats, his tone dry. “Or lost in delusion?”
I flinch at his words, but I don’t let it show.
Instead, I look down at my coloring book, at the doll’s face staring back at me—yellow hair, green eyes, pink lips, flushed cheeks. Zane.
It’s all I have left of him.
So I keep repeating it in my head.
“Maybe a little of both,” I murmur, my fingers gripping the color pencil tighter, as though it might anchor me to something real.
Something I can hold on to.
“When they told me you were coming back to society, I couldn’t believe it.” His tone so diplomatic it makes my skin crawl.
“I will” I murmur, letting the words fall flat between us.
“I’d like to do a few checkups later. I’ve already forwarded the request to your father,” he continues, his voice too smooth.
“As if my father cares about my health,” I snap, a bitterness I can’t hide in my voice. “Besides, Paulina who approves these things.”
“No. I’ll stay responsible as your guardian. Paulina is no longer living here—she’s in a new home somewhere else. I don’t actually see her much anymore,” he says, the words laced with an unsettling finality.
Zane was my guardian.
But Zane was also not real.
The thought of him swells my chest, a brief moment of warmth amidst the storm of emotions that batter me.
"Then that means you're my newest nanny?" I say, my voice sharp, exasperated. Dr. Icaza smiles, but it’s a smile so wicked it feels like a physical weight on my chest.
"It means you’ll be mine again, Two," he replies, his voice dropping into something darker, something that makes my spine stiffen.
I can’t exactly say what this man did to me while I was unconscious, but my body remembers.
It doesn’t like his presence. It doesn’t like the feeling of being controlled by someone who sees me as nothing but a piece to manipulate.
Breathe, Mia.
His laugh when he notices my clenched fists sends a chill through me. I never was fully aware of the things they did to me.
I walk from the garden to the living room, ignoring him, but he insists on staying close, as if my silence means anything to him.
Maybe if I kill him, I could have a few minutes of peace—just enough to breathe.
But then I remember Katie. I don’t know where she is, but I know it’s foolish to anger my father now, especially with him returning to the States.
He’s always content to let me rot in some forgotten corner of his world. So why this sudden need for attention? I can count on one hand the number of times my father bothered to have dinner with me.
Sometimes with James, sometimes not at all—just leaving me to Paulina, to do as she pleased, as long as I didn’t make a mess of things.
He wouldn’t kill me, no. He’d just keep me locked away, tucked into a drawer, for when he needed to pull me out like some obedient puppet.
That’s all I’ve ever been to him.
No wonder I created such a perfect, endless universe in my head.
"I appreciate your concern in being my guardian," I reply coldly, my voice dripping with forced diplomacy. "Perhaps that’s something you should bring up to my father." I turn and head for the table, my steps deliberate.
Dr. Icaza follows me, but he stays at a distance. I glance around and see unfamiliar faces. Paulina and Cole are conspicuously absent, which only raises my curiosity.
I move toward my room with a sense of urgency, my heart a little heavier with each step. The closet door opens, and the soft fabric of my dresses brushes my fingertips as I search for something that might bridge the gap between me and the world I’ve lost.
Then, I see it—a yellow dress. Elegant, flowing. The color soft but bright, like sunlight breaking through a storm. I remember the dream. I remember how warm it felt, how real, like something was within my reach. I ache to slip back into that universe, to wear this dress like a second skin, to feel some semblance of that fleeting freedom.
I let the dress fall over my shoulders, its softness grazing my skin. For a moment, I almost feel it—the illusion, the warmth, the comfort of something I can’t have. I look at myself in the mirror, the yellow of the dress lifting something inside me—something deep, something desperate. But it’s just that—a desperate attempt to recreate something that never was.
I steady myself with a deep breath, smoothing the fabric down, and head toward the dining room.
The house feels different now. The air is heavy, suffocating, as though it holds every memory of everything that’s been taken from me. I pause at the doorframe, my fingers grazing the wood before I push it open. And there he is—Dr. Easton Icaza—seated at the dinner table like he belongs, like his presence doesn’t taint the entire room.
I freeze. For a split second, the yellow dress feels out of place, like I’m wearing a mask—pretending to be someone I’m not, trying to outrun something that’s always lurking in the background. But I smooth the fabric down and swallow back the disgust, forcing myself to walk toward the table.
I sit, careful not to let my revulsion slip through. I can feel his eyes on me, calculating, weighing every movement, every word. I keep my expression neutral, hiding everything beneath a smile I’ve worn too many times before.
“Good evening, Doctor,” I say, my voice steady, though everything inside me is screaming to run, to lash out at the twisted reality around me.
“Good evening, Miss Riviera,” he replies smoothly, his gaze lingering just a bit too long. I feel the weight of it, like he’s searching for a crack in the mask I’m wearing, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Then, my father arrives, and the room falls silent. What happens next is nothing like I expect. He smiles at me.
I stand frozen, waiting for the usual rejection—the moment when he’ll notice my presence just long enough to dismiss me. But this time, he smiles.
“I’d like to have dinner with only my daughter tonight,” he says to the men at the table. Confusion ripples through the room. Dr. Icaza is the first to speak up.
“I thought we were discussing Mia’s treatment moving forward.”
My father meets his gaze with cold, gray eyes. “You don’t have to worry about that. You won’t be in charge of the decisions.”
Dr. Icaza looks stunned, but my father repeats himself with a finality that sends a chill down my spine. “Like I said, I want to spend time with my daughter. The only one I have left.”
The men leave the room, bewildered, and I stand there, staring at my father, waiting for what comes next.
“You know, Mia, I’ve wronged you,” he says finally, his voice softer than I expect. “I didn’t give you the credit you deserved. But you’ve proven to be very useful to me.”
“I don’t know how I could’ve done that.”
“My daughter,” he says, a strange pride in his voice. “You have Riviera blood in you. I hate to admit it, but I’m beginning to see that in you.”
It’s a corrupt blood, and I want nothing to do with it.
"A man came to me today. A man with power, with money. He spoke of alliances—promises of influence, of control. He offered me everything, and in return, he asked for you. You, hija, are now his. You will belong to him, and your duty will be to solidify this. With a marriage."
His words drip with cold indifference, each one carefully measured, as if the concept of my existence is no more than a pawn in his game.
"You will not question it. You will not fight it. You will do what is expected. Be a good daughter. Be a good wife. That’s all that matters."
He leans forward, his gaze heavy, as if testing the weight of his words on my soul.
"Siempre estuviste destinada a ser una pieza en mi tablero, hija. Y ahora, esta es tu oportunidad de ser útil. Si no lo eres, haré que te arrepientas de haberte cruzado en mi camino. Así que olvídate de bromas y juegos, quiero que seas la esposa perfecta. ?Lo entiendes?"
You were always meant to be a piece on my board, daughter. And now, this is your chance to be useful. If you're not, I'll make you regret ever crossing my path. So, no jokes, no games. I expect you to be the perfect wife. Understand?
My mind races. What?
“Yes,” I managed.
“Well, I have a surprise for you,” he says, gesturing to one of the guards, his words laced with ominous promise.
The man who steps into the room hits me like a thunderclap, each beat of my heart so forceful I’m certain it might tear through my chest. I don’t let my gaze waver from my father, keeping my mask firmly in place even as my insides scream, chaotic and raw.
Zane.
But not my Zane. This one is different.
He’s dressed in a tailored suit, the kind that screams power, like it’s been stitched from the threads of a man who controls everything around him.
He walks with an unsettling confidence, each step purposeful, like he’s right at home in a world where I no longer recognize him.
He looks like he belongs to the Mafia—or better yet, like he is the damn leader of it.
The suit clings to his body in all the wrong ways, reminding me of someone who doesn’t need to prove strength, but wields it effortlessly.
His smile is all wrong. It’s polished, calculated, with an edge to it that cuts through the air between us. It’s not the smile I used to trust. The one that made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered.
No, this smile is nothing but a mask, a carefully constructed facade that hides the storm of emotions I can barely comprehend.
And when his eyes lock onto mine, there’s nothing warm or familiar in them—nothing that suggests he remembers the love we once shared. No. What I see in those eyes now is colder than ice, something darker than I can grasp, and it makes my insides twist with a feeling I can't name.
I want to scream, to rage at him, but instead, I stand there, frozen, my mind a chaotic mess of confusion, anger, and pain.
He’s real. This is the real Zane.
My pulse stutters, and a sickening doubt gnaws at me—did I let myself be manipulated by Paulina again?
But if he is really him... If this is the Zane I’ve spent so long chasing in my mind, then why does everything feel wrong? The warmth, the tenderness, the connection we once shared—all of it seems like a distant memory now, slipping through my fingers like sand.
If he's real, then why does he feel so far away?
What happened to the man who once loved me? What happened to the Zane I swore would never betray me?
The man standing before me is a stranger.
And it terrifies me more than I want to admit.
“This is Reign Mitchell, daughter. He is the leader of the Crimson Star, an organization that will help us reclaim our full power, and your marriage to him will seal that alliance. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, of course. I’ve granted him direct access to the mansion, and every person who used to serve here has been replaced by Reign’s own people. You belong to him now, daughter.”
The words hit me like a slap, but I can’t quite process them. The Crimson Star? The name rings in my ears, but nothing makes sense.
My father’s eyes burn with a quiet, dangerous expectation, the kind that makes it clear there’s no room for resistance.
I’m frozen, barely able to process his words, let alone form a response.
My mind is a blur, spinning wildly as the weight of his decision crushes me.
This… this isn’t what I expected. What does he mean?
“Hi,” I whisper, barely a breath, the words escaping my lips before I even realize it. I turn to him, ignoring my father’s presence completely. Panic crashes over me like a tidal wave, and my pulse quickens with each breath. No. This can’t be happening. Not like this.
But Zane—he’s standing there, expression still and unreadable.
He smiles, but it’s not the smile I once knew. It’s hollow, cold, like it’s been carved out of ice. It’s not the warmth that used to make me feel safe, but something forced, something calculated. It’s a smile that masks something darker, something I can’t grasp but feel in my bones.
His smile isn’t genuine. It’s a performance, a carefully crafted mask, and I don’t know how to react. Is it anger I feel building up? Disgust? There’s a gnawing emptiness in my chest, but I can’t name the feeling.
"Hello, sweet chaos. Miss me?" His voice is low, far too controlled, carrying a bite that shatters the fragments of what I once believed.
His words don’t feel like the teasing affection I once cherished, but like a weapon—cold, calculated, and meant to wound.
The sound of his voice, that same voice I used to find comfort in, feels like a mocking shadow now, draining the light from my world.
And with that, everything inside me falters.
My thoughts scatter. The room spins. I try to hold on, but the grip on reality slips through my fingers.
I can’t focus. I can’t breathe.
What happened to us?
To be continued...