Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
Alana
My eyelids flutter open, and I am immediately aware of the intense throbbing in my head. I groan and roll onto my back, throwing my arm over my face.
Alejandro isn’t here.
Oh, dear god. I asked him to fuck me last night.
I actually said those words out loud. I throw my other arm over my face in shame.
Not only did I proposition him, but he turned me down.
I was almost naked and literally rubbing myself against him, and he still said no.
What the hell is so repulsive about me that my own husband refuses to touch me?
Another memory bubbles to the surface. One of my face pressed against his hard chest. Of his strong arms wrapped around me. Of a whispered promise that he would ruin me for any other man. The recollection has my insides melting like warm butter.
There’s no sign of him. I didn’t feel him get out of bed and don’t know if he stayed the night or if he slipped away as soon as he was able to—leaving his drunken mess of a wife to sleep it off.
Not that I can be blamed for getting a little drunk, surely.
It isn’t every day a girl has a gun stuck in her face.
On the bedside table is a glass of water atop a sheet of notepaper. When I lean over and squint, I see there are two Advil there also. I move the glass and pick up the note, finding it’s been written on Alejandro’s personal stationery.
Drink this and take these. Call you later, A x
I blink back a happy tear. He signed it with a kiss. Somehow that feels more intimate than anything that’s passed between us before. Even when I had my semi-naked body pressed up against him, it was about getting a physical need met, not necessarily about either of us caring for the other.
The water in the glass is still chilled, so he must have stayed all night. Happiness flares hot in my chest.
I take the Advil and lie back against the pillows again.
The events of last night replay in my head on a loop, and I try to make some sense of what happened.
Who was that man in the restaurant, and why did he target me?
He mentioned my father, which makes zero sense.
I have no doubt my father has angered many people throughout his political career—but enough for them to want to shoot his daughter in the middle of a crowded restaurant?
Alejandro will get answers, but whether he’ll give me the truth about it is another matter entirely.
He and my father aren’t friends, even if they publicly claim to be allies.
But an ally doesn’t threaten to expose you to the FBI and then demand your daughter’s hand in marriage as the only way to prevent it.
It still baffles me that a man like Alejandro felt the need to do that. There must be dozens of women who’d jump at the chance to marry him. Is it a power thing?
I groan loudly. My headache isn’t helping me think straight at all, but something about this whole arrangement doesn’t add up. If Alejandro won’t give me the truth, then I’ll find it for myself.