Chapter 3
“Everyone knows what right and wrong means.
Unfortunately…
It doesn’t always stop you from indulging in what your heart desires.”
Jimena
Jimena
“Home sweet home,” I whisper as George pulls by the iron gates, and several security guards jump up, dipping their heads and grinning at me.
“Hi, Miss Cortez.” They greet me since my window is open and wave at me. “Welcome back home!”
“Hi, guys, and thank you!” I wave back, although my brow furrows at all these security guards because, why do we need so many? “How have you been?”
“Peachy. Got married in the spring.” One of them shows off his ring to me and puffs his chest out proudly. “So I’m delighted.”
“Congratulations.”
He opens his mouth to say something else when George interrupts him. “Open the damn gates, Bob. She had a long flight and has no time for chitchat.”
His cheeks heat, and he nods, yelling at the other guards. “Press the button!” He flashes me another grin. “I’m always right here, Miss Jimena.”
I stifle a laugh as George shakes his head and roars the engine back to life because everyone in my house knows I love good gossip. Bob is the biggest gossiper among the staff and loves to share.
When you’re raised in a house that’s permanently coated in sorrow, you tend to find gossip refreshing and fun as it pulls you away from the misery constantly floating in the air.
“Have a nice day, guys,” I tell them just as George flies through the open gates and drives on the narrow asphalt surrounded by the emerald-green grass.
Sighing, I rest my head against my seat and drink in the beauty revealed to my view, and despite the ache in my chest, I still find an odd solace as warmth envelops me and reminds me that this is my sanctuary.
Even from myself.
A magnificent garden is seen where roses, orchids, and other blooming flowers are arranged in various shapes and forms, creating a magical place one can get lost in for hours.
As a little girl, I used to come up with endless stories, forcing everyone to tag along and pretend we lived in some fantasy land where we had to defend it from an evil sorcerer.
I was always careful not to touch or harm the flora and fauna around us because the garden reminded my parents of my older brother, and as such, it was a sacred place where everything could be admired…but never ever changed or destroyed.
In the distance, several alcoves are dotted around, various flowers growing from the walls, and it’s the perfect place to get lost in a book while drinking some hot chocolate and enjoying the light breeze caressing your skin.
Or hide away so you won’t have to listen to your mother’s cries or see your dad lock himself away in his office and drink a whole bottle of whiskey by himself.
I jerk when I fist my hand so tight my nails cut into my palm, and rub the wounded skin. I go back to studying the greenhouse that holds some of the rarest plants, as Mom loves to gather them from around the world. Finally, my eyes land on two glass cages with canvases, various paints, and even a chair.
Dad specifically designed it for Mom so she could paint outside whenever the mood struck her, and he could watch her from a distance, admiring her beauty and showing her love even when he wasn’t around.
And among all this beauty, right in the middle, stands a huge Victorian-style house spread horizontally over the property made of brick with roses climbing the walls, adding to my family homes overall mysterious aura.
It has three levels and countless rooms to get lost in. It is amazing for playing hide-and-seek with the staff who almost had heart attacks on a daily basis when they couldn’t find me. Marble stairs lead to the double brown doors glistening in the sunlight as George pulls the car up by them, and our family butler, Pablo, stands downstairs to greet us.
He opens the door, bows a little, and says, “Se?orita.” He extends his hand, helping me get out of the car, and the minute I do, the zapping energy hits me with full force as restlessness awakens every hair on my body because my family property inspires only one word in my mind.
Power. Power. Power.
Swallowing past the bile in my throat, I grin at Pablo and take out a bar of chocolate from my purse. “That’s for you. Straight from Switzerland.”
Joy crosses his wrinkled face as he grabs it. “You shouldn’t have, se?orita. There are rules.” He reminds me about the rules no one ever follows, but considering he’s the oldest in the house, he’s very anal about them all and constantly teaches me to keep my distance from the staff.
How can I?
Most of them raised me!
“And I told you I don’t care. Enjoy it. It practically melts on the tongue.” I look over my shoulder at George, who gets out of the car and goes to the trunk. “And I brought you an antique chessboard. Had to fight for it in Italy.”
“That’s the spirit, kid.”
“George,” Pablo hisses, glancing around while our driver just rolls his eyes and grabs my suitcase, placing it on the ground with a loud thud. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Sure. Preferably at the game while I’m trying out my new antique chessboard.” He winks at me, and I laugh while my butler just glares at us.
Pablo has this weird sense of responsibility over the entire household, so watching him get all frustrated over the smallest things is hilarious because no one cares except him. “Where are my parents?” I ask, changing the topic and mustering all the courage I can to face them and put on a brave face so they won’t see the true me.
Although, as my existence proved it, that’s not such a hard task when your parents tend to focus on your older sibling, and you’re just there in the background.
“They are in the living room, awaiting your arrival. The cook baked your favorite cake.”
“The chocolate one?”
He frowns while George freezes, and tension swirls in the air, washing away my excitement and filling me with dread. Despite knowing how much his next words would hurt me, I stand still and can almost feel the pieces of my heart crack.
Yet again.
“No. Lemon cake.” A beat passes. “Isn’t it your favorite?” Panic laces his tone while George sighs heavily, and I can practically feel pity emitting from him.
Because lemon cake is my brother’s favorite.
However, I swallow the bitter taste of resentment once again and flash them both a brilliant smile that, judging by their assertive eyes, neither of them believes, but no one will call me out on my bullshit.
It’s not like it’s the first time.
“Oh, it is. I was just messing with you.” I add a giggle for good measure and spin around. “I’m gonna go now.” Before any of them can say anything, I dart toward the stairs and take them in record time, reaching the double oak doors. “Showtime,” I mutter to myself as I enter, my heels clicking soundly on the perfectly polished marble.
Putting my purse on the nearest table, I sweep my eyes over the magnificent interior that has the ability to surprise me even after growing up among all this wealth.
Red, gold, and brown dominate the color scheme of this spacious place, the floor glistening under the various lights. Expensive paintings hang on the walls, showcasing certain events from mythology—some from ancient Greece and others from ancient Rome if one looks closely enough.
One of my parent’s hobbies is to collect art pieces all over the world so everyone can admire them at our home, but ironically, Mom never allows her work to be hung inside.
As she once said, art is the expression of her deepest demons, so they have no place in her sanctuary, aka home.
The delicious smells float in the air from the kitchen at the far end of the house, twitching my nose and making my stomach rumble. Maids hastily run around, holding heavy trays and nodding at me in greeting.
My brow shoots up at his, and I wonder why we need so much food, but I still manage to snatch a small sandwich from a tray, munching on it and groaning in pleasure when the cheese hits my taste buds.
It might not be true for everyone, but for me, there is no better food than that at home.
A hallway leads to several arch-like doors leading to the dining, living, and terrace rooms. My parents prefer to have assigned spaces for different activities so no one would ever wander somewhere they shouldn’t and disturb our peace.
Expensive oak furniture made by famous designers fills the place, while the golden chandelier hanging in the living room has been the talk of town for decades. Rumor has it that Dad bought it on the black market because Mom loved it so much.
And to my endless frustration, he never confirmed nor denied the said rumors, so we don’t even know if it’s the truth or a lie. Either way, we wouldn’t have been surprised.
Dad is obsessed with Mom with a capital O, so there is nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
The mansion should have been forbidden for how luxurious it is, yet oddly enough, our house has a peaceful energy around it, not imposing on you with its wealth. Rather, it invites you in, allowing you to slowly peel back the veil and peek in our life.
Only peek, though, because my parents rarely grant anyone such a privilege. This house has been a soulless museum for almost twenty-four years.
No one was more shocked than me when they decided to host their anniversary party and invite almost fifty people to celebrate with them.
I guess time heals everyone’s wounds but mine.
I can add ‘sounding pathetic on a permanent basis’ as one of my character traits.
“Drop the dramatics, Jimena,” I mutter under my breath.
Dusting off my hands as I finish my sandwich, I hear hushed voices in the living room and walk into it, spotting my parents sitting on the red velvet couch.
As always, Dad has his arms wrapped around Mom as she leans on his chest, flipping through her notebook. He runs his fingers through her purple hair, rubs his chin over her shoulder, and she laughs a little. “Stop it, Lucian,” she says without much heat in her words and sighs when he kisses her neck. Looking at them makes me groan inwardly because these two need to constantly touch each other.
And while it’s great to have two parents who are in love, their public affection grates on my brother’s nerves and mine because it reminds us of how we came into this world.
An image no child wants to think about—just saying.
It doesn’t help that both my parents are considered insanely hot by everyone, and I wince, remembering how women still throw themselves at Dad whenever they have the chance even though he always pushes them away.
He finds any attention except Mom’s annoying, and his possessive side shines through whenever men think they have a shot with Mom. I’ve lost count of how many men hightailed their ass, fearing Dad’s wrath after they tried to get a bit too close to her.
And by that, I mean breathing anywhere near her.
What can I say?
Dad is a bit of a psycho where Mom is concerned. Maybe that’s why he kidnapped Mom from New York and kept her in Chicago until she agreed to marry him.
Another rumor my parents didn’t confirm nor deny.
Mom spots me first, her blue eyes widening in surprise, and she jumps up, her long flowery dress skirting over her slender form while she exclaims, “Jimena.” Her long hair billows in different directions as she reaches me in three short strides and hugs me so close, it’s hard to breathe. Her lavender scent surrounds me while her love and affection practically pours from her, calming some of my earlier nerves. “My baby is home!” She leans back, cupping my cheeks while a broad smile curves her lips, and happiness settles on her features. “I’ve missed you so much, baby.” She kisses me on the cheek and hugs me again.
“Hi, Mama,” I greet her, returning the embrace. “I’ve missed you, too.”
“I’m so happy. I was worried you’d find another reason to delay your arrival.” Shame washes over me at the barely audible quiver in her tone, announcing how my recent behavior has hurt her.
We’ve always had a special bond—well, as special as one might get with a mother whose heart always cries for a child she lost. My brother might have come back…but in a way, he’s forever lost to them.
Still, after my epic fail a year ago, even my love for Mom couldn’t have brought me back here.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I needed…time,” I finish lamely and force an even brighter smile on my face.
If she digs hard enough, she’ll find the answer, and that will be even worse.
My shame should be only mine.
“Mi amor.” The minute Dad speaks up, Mom steps back, and instantly, protection along with safety replaces her softness while my dad practically swallows me in his arms, rocking me back and forth. “Welcome home, princess.”
Sighing heavily, I accept his warmth and gather strength from it, closing my eyes for a second and letting all the worries wash away, leaving me in the presence of two people who always loved me.
Who never ever allowed anyone to hurt me.
Who are the best parents in the whole world, even if I can never be the child they wished for.
“Gracias, Pápá,”I whisper, hoping they both hear the gratitude and apology in my words. “I brought gifts,” I tease when he leans back. His thumbs rub over my cheeks, and it takes everything in me to hold his stare. “Even your favorite brand of whiskey.”
He chuckles and kisses me on the forehead. “We’ll talk later about you buying alcohol. Someone forgot the rules.” Oh crap. Busted. “How was your flight?”
“Great. Can’t imagine having a bad flight on a private jet, though.” Mom chuckles, and Dad raises his brow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “What are you guys doing? Besides being adorably and disturbingly in love.” Squeezing Dad one more time, I step away and go to the nearest table, snagging a grape and popping it into my mouth. “You know, sometimes your love is traumatizing.”
“I’ll pay for your therapy, princess.” I laugh at Dad’s bored tone, and he wraps his arm around Mom’s waist. “There are worse fates in this world than having loving parents.”
Oh, there for sure are.
“We’ve been going over the party guest list. It’s a small gathering, but it’s the first one in years, so I’d like for it to be perfect,” Mom says, reaching for the notebook she held earlier that has her various sketches in it along with some notes. “It’s a bit nerve-wracking, and I don’t want to do it again anytime soon.”
“Really?” I ask in disbelief, munching on the grape and frowning when Dad shakes his head in warning, clearly not wanting me to continue the subject.
Since when do my parents care about anything being perfect for society?
“Our thirtieth wedding celebration deserves the best,” Dad says, kissing Mom on the neck again. However, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something because a weird tension fills the space around us. “Since it’s tomorrow, your brother will see you there.”
In other words, he won’t come tonight as he usually does to check on me, and that’s when it dawns on me.
Even the small gathering would take hours, which means my brother would have to actually spend some time at the family mansion for more than twenty minutes and try his best not to go for Dad’s throat in the meantime.
My parents are nervous about celebrating their anniversary tomorrow, as they don’t know how my brother will behave and if he can control his temper long enough to forget about the permanent rage and resentment living inside him.
He always aims those two emotions at Dad, and Dad takes it like a pro, never shying away from it, but their relationship hurts Mom.
Which means one thing.
Tomorrow, it will be my job to keep the peace in the family.
“Your party is going to rock, Mom,” I tell her, hoping to reassure her. “I’m going to freshen up, and then we can have lunch together and play board games.”
In this household, competitive games are our jam, and joy crosses their faces, welcoming the distraction from their worries.
“See you in a few, then. Prepare for a battle,” Dad warns, and I roll my eyes, although he’s probably right.
We have no mercy when it comes to victories.
I’m almost out of the living room when I hear Mom exclaim, “I’m so happy to have all the kids back in the country.”
“Ah, yes. Florian’s back as well.”
“He left around the same time Jimena did, and his business trips in Asia lasted for longer than anyone anticipated.”
I freeze, my breathing speeding up while my heart beats so wildly in my chest that I expect it to jump out of me.
No.
He’s back?
I thought I had a little bit more time before facing my brother’s best friend, but he’s back.
And worse.
I’ll have to see him tomorrow and pretend he never ripped my heart to shreds and then stomped on it.
One person I never expected to hurt me, yet he did, and in such a way I’m still trying to glue myself back together. Although something tells me it’s a useless task.
Fucking never do this again, Jimena. Do you understand? Never cross the line again, or you won’t like the consequences. I have no time or interest in inexperienced and confused teenagers who deem themselves in love with an older man.
Shaking my head as pain travels through my veins, I roll my shoulders back and resume my walk while promising myself to give the performance of a lifetime tomorrow.
Florian won’t ever see how much he hurt me.
How tragic.
Because once upon a time, he was the only one who could truly see my pain and cure it like no one else.
All things come to an end, though.
This I now know without a shadow of a doubt.