Chapter 20-Maya
The bass thunders through the entire stage floor, rattling up my legs and into my chest.
The moment Rico steps onto the stage, the crowd erupts— screams so loud it almost feels like the air is splitting.
“El Tigre! El Tigre!” they chant, over and over, a living, breathing beast hungry for him.
And God, he gives them what they want.
I’ve seen him perform before, of course.
But this is different.
This is the first time I’ve watched him not just as a fan, not just as his lyricist, but as his wife.
And it feels electric .
He prowls the stage with that swagger that’s all his, commanding every eye, every breath.
Black on black, chain gleaming, belt buckle flashing under the lights—he looks every inch the star.
The bass starts. Those notes Rico wrote with every piece of his heart and soul.
And then he opens his mouth— and holy shit —the music just pours out of him.
Raw. Unfiltered. Mesmerizing. Soul lifting.
I swear the whole damn world tilts.
The melodies he wrote. The lyrics we’ve been working on together. Songs born from late nights tangled in sheets and mornings scribbling on napkins. He sings them all. They come alive here—on stage, through him.
His voice is pure fire— rough, guttural, aching with emotion one second, smooth and seductive the next.
The crowd moves with him, bodies swaying, arms lifted, feeding off the rhythm like he’s some kind of prophet.
His head turns, black eyes glittering, and even though I know the lights are bright, I swear he is looking right at me.
And I know—I know —he’s not singing to them.
He’s singing to me.
Every note, every lyric, every look he casts over the crowd but lands right on me when he thinks no one notices— they’re mine.
Something sparks inside me, sharp and fierce.
Pride. Love. Possession.
It hits me like lightning, this realization that I get to be the one who sees him both ways.
The untouchable El Tigre, larger than life. And just Rico, the man who curls around me in bed whispering filthy things against my ear and making me fall harder every second we’re together without ever really trying.
I press my hand to my belly, my heart aching.
Our son will grow up knowing this man.
Not just the star on stage, but the artist. The fighter.
The man who loves so hard it consumes him.
And me? I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life than being his.
The crowd roars his name again, and he throws his head back, sweat glinting under the lights, his voice breaking open on a high note that makes the room erupt.
It’s magic.
It’s him.
And I can’t look away. I won’t.
Rico is so talented, and the whole world gets to share that.
But I’m the only one who gets the real him.
And I’m so damn proud to call myself his wife.