Chapter 18-Maya
The flashes are blinding. The voices are cruel. Words like heiress, trap, shotgun wedding slice through the air, aiming straight for me.
Old wounds split open in my chest, the ones my father carved there with every sideways glance, every reminder that I wasn’t good enough for the world he lived in.
And for one dizzying heartbeat, the shame is ready to crash down, the fear swelling to choke me.
But then I look at Rico.
My husband.
He’s shaking with fury, his jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides like he’s about to snap someone’s neck.
The rage radiating off him is so hot it makes the crowd take half a step back even as they keep snapping their pictures.
And that’s what gives me courage.
Because if he’s going to burn for me, I can damn well burn for him.
I slip my hand into the crook of his arm, then I slide it down, threading my fingers through his strong, shaking ones, and I smile wide for the cameras.
A big, blinding smile that says everything I don’t care to explain.
Because it doesn’t matter what they say.
Doesn’t matter what they print tomorrow.
I’m his.
He’s mine.
The rest of the world can turn to ash for all I care.
“Hey,” I whisper, tugging at his arm, dragging his gaze away from the vultures. “Look at me.”
Rico’s black eyes find mine, wild and feral, but when he sees me, really sees me, they soften.
“I love you,” I tell him, steady and sure.
His lips twist into a half-snarl, half-smile. “I love you so fucking much.”
And then he slams his mouth to mine.
The cameras explode in chaos, shouting, the world erupting around us, but we don’t care.
We don’t even look at them. His hand slides around the back of my neck, firm and protective, anchoring me to him as we move forward together, step by step.
Proud.
Untouchable.
A force to be reckoned with.
Right here, right now, we’re making it known.
El Tigre isn’t owned by anybody. He’s his own man.
And me? I’m his wife. His partner. His everything.
But all that bravado goes flying right out the door the second we step inside.
The noise inside the club hits me like a wave—bass shaking the walls, voices shouting over one another, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and smoke.
Private venue or not, it’s chaos, the kind rockstars and celebrities thrive on.
Me? I’m still learning how to breathe in it.
The cameras outside fade as soon as we cross the threshold, but the whispers don’t.
They follow us in, darting through the air like knives.
Gold heiress. Publicity stunt. A ruse to entice Diablita.
Rico doesn’t let go of my hand until one of the promoters pulls him away, clapping him on the shoulder, dragging him into a circle of artists and industry people.
Friends, allies. People he knows. People who gave him a chance before anyone else did— he already told me that at home.
And I get it.
But it still makes my stomach clench when his heat, his steady presence, disappears from my side.
“El Tigre wants you backstage,” someone tells me, guiding me toward the narrow corridor that leads behind the stage.
The club’s lighting shifts back here, dimmer, shadows pooling in the corners. I perch on a cracked vinyl couch, clutching a bottle of water, trying to look like I belong.
That’s when I hear them.
A trio of women slink past, all curves and long legs and skin-tight dresses, their eyes sharp as razors.
Professional fans, groupies, industry hangers-on, maybe both.
The kind of women who live to orbit stars like El Tigre. Who measure their worth in nights spent in dressing rooms.
One of them smirks when her gaze lands on me.
“So that’s her?” she stage-whispers, loud enough to echo off the walls. “That’s the Gold Records heiress who came here with El Tigre?”
Another snickers.
“Please. We all know what he really needs, and it’s not some fat bitch sitting pretty on daddy’s money.”
The words hit like a slap.
My cheeks burn, my throat closes, and for one horrible second, I’m seventeen again in boarding school, listening to the mean girls cackle about my size, about how I didn’t belong.
I want to shrink. To vanish. To run.
But then I remember Rico’s hand gripping mine outside, the way he kissed me in front of the cameras like he didn’t give a damn who saw.
I remember his voice, fierce and raw.
You’re mine, Maya. Always were, always will be.
And I lift my chin.
If they think they can cut me down, they’re wrong. Because I may not look like their version of perfect—but I’m the one he came here with, and I’m the one he’s leaving with.
The one he married.
The one carrying his child.
Still, the sting lingers, sharp and ugly, worming its way inside.
I push it all away—the flashing cameras, the screaming questions, the sting of those awful headlines. I have to. Otherwise, I’ll crumble right here.
Instead, I stand on the side of the big stage, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if this is even where I’m supposed to be.
Stagehands weave around me like a hive in motion, barking into headsets, dragging cords, adjusting lights that blind me every few seconds.
The air smells like hot wires, sweat, and the faint tang of smoke machines. Everyone seems to know exactly what they’re doing. Everyone belongs.
Except me.
I fold my arms, trying to make myself smaller, out of the way. I turn my head left, then right, searching for Rico, for Chuy, for anyone I might recognize.
But all I see are strangers in black shirts and tool belts, moving too fast to notice me.
My palms are starting to sweat. My stomach twists.
I don’t want to be the girl lost in the wings, looking like a tagalong. I don’t want to embarrass Rico by sticking out.
I promised him I’d be strong, but God, I feel so out of place here.
The sound of the crowd swells on the other side of the curtain, their chants and screams pounding in my chest like a second heartbeat.
I clutch my water bottle tighter, focusing on the condensation beading against my fingers. Anything to keep myself grounded.
And then— he’s there.
Rico bursts into the area where I’m standing out like a sore thumb.
He’s all black fire and golden heat, like the heavens themselves just spat him out.
He commands the space without even trying— jaw hard, eyes burning, his body vibrating with energy that feels too big for these walls.
The stagehands pause when he passes.
People look up. Everyone feels it.
And me?
My breath catches. My chest aches with so much pride and want, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it from spilling out.
Because this man— this rockstar —is mine.