27. Robin
ROBIN
I’m not overly happy to see Cruz sitting at a kitchen table between two of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on in my life.
“Good morning,” Senora Valentina says to me. “Did you sleep well?”
I clear my throat. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Mercedes, Esmeralda, this is Robin,” Senora Valentina says.
I nod and force a smile.
Mercedes is tall and gorgeous and exudes confidence. Her robe is black lace, her hair piled up in a careless knot, her lips bare but somehow still perfect.
Esmeralda is smaller, with auburn hair and freckles. Her green satin robe brings out the color of her eyes.
So here I am. In the kitchen of a brothel with three stunning women watching me. And Cruz standing with a pink heart-shaped mug in his hand.
The good news is he doesn’t seem to have eyes for either Mercedes or Esmeralda.
His gaze is locked on me.
Not that I care.
I don’t care if Cruz looks at beautiful women.
He can look at whoever he wants. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not my lover in any sensible, normal, emotionally stable definition of the word. He’s not mine.
He’s my captor turned rescuer turned temporary protector turned—
No.
Absolutely not finishing that sentence.
It’s too early in the morning for mental gymnastics, especially before coffee.
“Thank you for the robe,” I say to Senora Valentina.
Senora waves a hand, her own red-and-pink robe swishing. “Of course. I knew it would flatter you.”
Mercedes leans forward, chin propped on one hand. “So where did you come from?”
I go still.
Just slightly.
Probably not enough for Mercedes to notice, maybe. But Cruz notices.
Senora Valentina definitely notices. Her smile doesn’t waver. “Family trouble,” she says smoothly before I can decide whether to lie badly or say nothing at all. “Her family does not accept Cruz.”
Mercedes lifts her eyebrows. Esmeralda looks from me to Cruz with immediate interest.
I blink at Senora.
She continues without missing a beat. “Because he is the son of a…working girl.”
Cruz closes his eyes. “Valentina,” he says.
“What? It is the story.” She turns back to the women. “Her father threw her out in the middle of the night. It was quite the drama. So they will stay here a few days while he cools off.”
Mercedes wrinkles her forehead. “Her father threw her out because of Cruz?”
“Men with money think bloodline is more important than love,” Senora says.
“Money?” Esmeralda asks.
Oh, God… “Not much money,” I say quickly. “I mean, my family isn’t uber wealthy.”
“Uber?” Esmeralda asks.
“Sorry.” I tighten my grip on my mug. “It comes from German. It means super.” I stare into my coffee.
This is absurd.
Cruz and I are not star-crossed lovers thrown into the street by my disapproving father because he’s the son of a prostitute.
My father is in a hospital bed back in Texas recovering from brain damage. My brothers are probably tearing apart the earth looking for me. Cruz and I are here because he helped kidnap me and then helped rescue me, and now neither of us knows what the hell we’re doing beyond not dying.
But I am grateful Senora made up the story.
Mercedes and Esmeralda don’t need to know who I am. They don’t need to know Vega wants me. They don’t need to know my last name. Knowing those things will only put them in danger, and while I don’t love the way they’re eyeing Cruz, I also don’t want to see any harm come to them.
I don’t want anyone else in harm’s way because I’m sitting in this kitchen drinking from a pink heart mug and pretending this is a complicated romance instead of a freaking disaster.
I look up and force my mouth into a tired smile. “My father is very dramatic.”
Cruz looks at me. Something flickers in his eyes. Gratitude? Grief? I have no idea.
Mercedes snorts. “Fathers usually are.”
I glance toward the counter. “Is there more coffee?”
Cruz is already moving, grabbing my mug. “I’ll get you a refill. Cream and sugar?”
“Black is fine. That’s how all my family—”
I cut myself off.
Too late.
Cruz’s gaze sharpens.
Senora keeps her expression perfectly neutral. She’s probably had a lot of practice in her line of business.
Mercedes and Esmeralda don’t seem to notice anything beyond the flow of conversation, but I know better than to trust that. These women probably notice everything. They live in a house where survival depends on hearing the difference between a drunk man laughing and a dangerous one smiling.
Cruz hands me back my mug, and I take a sip of coffee. It’s strong, bitter, and perfect.
I sit down at the table. Cruz sits next to me. His knee is close to mine under the table. Not touching. Just close enough that I am aware of it.
Annoying man.
Mercedes smiles at me. “So you don’t come from money?”
I nearly choke.
Senora Valentina arches a brow at me.
Cruz goes very still.
“We weren’t poor,” I say carefully.
Definitely not a lie.
“Even a little money can sometimes make family life difficult,” Mercedes says.
“You sound like you know,” I say, trying to move the conversation away from me.
She laughs. “Oh, I know.”
Esmeralda rolls her eyes. “Here we go.”
“What?” Mercedes asks. “She asked.”
“I did,” I say. “And I’m interested.”
Mercedes leans back in her chair. “I came from a good family in Bogotá. Well-to-do, as they say.”
“As rich people say,” Esmeralda mutters.
Mercedes narrows her eyes. “Jealousy is unbecoming.”
Esmeralda smirks. “I’m not jealous of your family. They sound awful.”
“They are awful. But very nicely dressed.”
Despite myself, I smile.
“My parents wanted me to become something respectable. A lawyer, maybe. Or at least the wife of a lawyer. Either would have pleased them, as long as there was money and no visible scandal.”
“That sounds suffocating,” I say.
“It was. So I went to college and did exactly what they wanted for almost two years.”
“Almost?”
Her grin turns wicked. “Then I discovered theater. I thought I was meant for the stage.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“The stage disagreed.”
I frown. “I’m so sorry.”
She shrugs. “I dropped out of school to act. I was young. Dramatic. Convinced I would become famous within six months because obviously the world was waiting for me.”
“And?” Cruz asks.
She looks at him. “And the world wasn’t.”
Senora Valentina nods. “It can be a ruthless business. Nowhere near as respectable as what we do,” she adds with a wink.
“I landed flat on my ass,” Mercedes says. “No roles. No money. No patience left from my family. I could have gone back, of course.”
“But you didn’t want to,” I say.
“No,” she says. “I didn’t want to go back and listen to them tell me I was stupid. I didn’t want my father’s money if it came with his contempt. They were rich, yes, but they were also dicks. So I fell back on the thing men have been telling me I could use since I was fourteen.”
My stomach tightens. Clearly we all know how it ended.
“My body,” she says simply. “At least this way, I set the price.”
I hear no shame in her voice. Of course, I don’t hear pride either. I don’t know what to say, so I simply nod.
Esmeralda rests her chin on her hand. “My story is the opposite.”
Mercedes groans. “Hers is sadder.”
“It’s not sadder. It has a better ending.”
“That depends on how you define ending.”
“Alive and well-paid is a good ending.”
Senora reaches across the table and pats Esmeralda’s hand.
“What happened?” I ask.
Esmeralda looks at me over her coffee. “I was orphaned young. Very young. I barely remember my mother.” She shifts her gaze. “And I remember more about the orphanage than I want to.”
Mercedes stops playing with the tie of her robe. Though she knows this story, clearly she feels Esmeralda deserves her attention.
“The woman who ran it was cruel,” Esmeralda continues. “Not the kind of cruel that leaves bruises every day. The smarter kind. Hungry children. Cold baths. Locked doors. That sort of thing.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Water under the bridge,” she says. “I escaped when I was fifteen.”
Fifteen.
A child.
I glance at Cruz.
His face has hardened.
“I had nowhere to go,” Esmeralda says. “No money. No family. No plan beyond not going back. Senora found me trying to sleep behind the bakery two streets away.”
Senora Valentina sniffs. “You were terrible at hiding.”
“I was hungry.”
“You were also rude.”
“I was fifteen.”
“That’s not an excuse for being rude to the woman offering you bread.”
Esmeralda smiles, and the love in it is unmistakable. “She brought me here.”
“To work?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Not to work,” Senora snaps. “She was a child.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” Senora Valentina says, softening only slightly. “But no. She stayed here. Ate here. Slept here. Helped with cleaning and laundry when she wanted spending money. Nothing else.”
Esmeralda nods. “When I was old enough, she told me I could stay and work if I wanted. Or I could leave and she would help me find something else.”
“And you stayed,” I say.
“Yes.”
Her answer is simple. I want to understand it. I’m not sure I do.
“I chose it,” Esmeralda says. “This house had been kinder to me than anywhere else in the world. The women here were kinder. Senora was kinder. Men were men, but at least here they paid and followed rules.”
Mercedes nods. “Mostly.”
“Mostly,” Esmeralda agrees.
“And when they don’t,” Senora says, “they leave without teeth.”
Esmeralda sips her coffee. “I actually made a lot of money my first time.”
Mercedes leans toward me. “She auctioned off her virginity.”
I drop my jaw.
Esmeralda rolls her eyes. “Don’t make that face. I was of age.”
“I wasn’t—” I stop, because I absolutely was making a face. “Sorry.”
“You’re allowed. It was dramatic.” She bites her lip. “I was lucky, I suppose. A lot of people who left the orphanage had been abused sexually. I’d avoided that at least.”
“Still,” I say, searching for the least offensive word. “Was it…safe?”
Senora answers before Esmeralda can. “I chose the man.”
Strangely, that reassures me a little. Senora Valentina may work in a questionable field, but there’s no doubt in my mind she’s a good and trustworthy woman.
“I chose the man too,” Esmeralda says. “From options. Senora filtered out the animals.”
“There are many animals with money,” Senora says.
“Many,” Mercedes agrees.
Esmeralda shrugs. “I made enough to have choices afterward. More than I’ve ever made in one night since, of course, because men are ridiculous about firsts. But I don’t regret it. I know that makes some people uncomfortable.”
I am definitely some people.
But maybe that’s my privilege talking.
Maybe I’m sitting here in borrowed silk, drinking coffee I didn’t pay for, judging a woman who found a way to take control of the only asset the world was willing to recognize.
What the hell do I know?
“I’ve enjoyed the work,” Esmeralda says. “Not every night. Not every man. But enough. I like being desired. I like choosing. I like money. I like this house. And I’m grateful to Senora because she gave me the chance to decide.”
That last word settles over the table.
Decide.
I understand that.
More than I expected to.
Last night, I decided things about my body I never decided before. Things that would look strange from the outside. Maybe even alarming. Things another woman might not understand if she heard them over coffee.
But they were mine.
My choices.
Messy, complicated, possibly reckless, and definitely confusing choices.
But still mine.
Who am I to sit here and decide whether Mercedes or Esmeralda survived correctly?
Who am I to be weirded out by women doing what they had to do when I’ve done the same?
In Romania, I did what I had to for survival.
Different circumstances.
Different scale.
Same ugly truth underneath.
I used what men wanted from me because it was the only tool I had.
These women have done the same. At least they’ve turned it into something positive.
“I get it,” I say quietly.
Cruz turns his head toward me.
I don’t look at him.
Mercedes studies me across the table. “Do you?”
“I think so.”
Esmeralda smiles a little. “Most women do, sooner or later.”