Chapter 11 Passion and Power
Alejandra
The walk-in closet smells of cedar, new leather, and expensive taste.
Shopping bags piled on top of each other are a testament to a day spent in a world I’m now a part of.
I still can’t believe this is where my life is now.
I’m holding a cashmere sweater in my hands, and I can’t get my mind around the fact that one piece of clothing costs the same as a month of my dad’s paycheck.
Each new piece of clothing I hang feels like I'm adding a link to the chain that tethers me to this house.
Veronica’s laughter, so bright and carefree, still echoes in my mind. We did, as she promised, terrorize Rodeo Drive. But the excitement of swiping Ernesto’s card soured hours ago.
Camilla had me dress her in a pink tutu from this morning and do her hair.
We even picked out a tiara and placed it just right, so her curls looked beautiful around it.
Camilla waited by the main staircase for over an hour.
Her little face, smeared with remnants of chocolate frosting from the cookies Consuelo and I baked for her.
The little smile she had was full of pure joy and hope.
She’d even set a place for Ernesto on her little tea table.
I looked forward to seeing Ernesto, a man well over six feet, sitting with Camilla.
“For papi,” she’d whispered as she set a cup of water next to a plate with a slightly squished cookie. Her round brown eyes were shining.
The staff and Consuelo served Camilla and me dinner at 7:00 pm sharp.
I asked her how her day at school went, and for a few minutes she forgot all about the abandoned ball.
Eight o’clock rolled around, and by now Camilla’s hair was a disaster, and her little eyes were red and swollen from crying.
Everyone tried to console her by telling her Ernesto would be home soon and not to be sad.
But then nine o’clock came, and the front door never opened. The king never arrived at his princess’s party.
It broke my heart when I carried her upstairs to her room. Her small body wracked with sobs that resounded through the empty mansion. The tiara we so carefully placed on her head fell to the marble floor with a sad little clatter.
“He promised, Ale,” she said as she cried into my shoulder, her tears soaking the fabric of my shirt.
“Papi promised he’d make time for me. He promised.
” Her crying never stopped as Consuelo and I got her ready for bed.
It took another hour, and for me to hum an old lullaby my nana Chuy would hum for me when I was sad.
My heart aches for this innocent little girl who just asks for a fraction of his time.
I slam a drawer shut. How could he? He has no right to make that little girl a promise if he can’t bother to keep it. Ernesto can’t keep breaking his baby's heart like this, or she’ll grow up to resent him. Why can’t he see that? Just a little time, that's all she needs.
My fingers brush against the tissue as I pull out the last few purchases of the day. Now this was not my choice. Veronica had held it up against me in the dressing room, her eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “Every wife needs a secret weapon, cunada.” She’d said with a wink.
A lingerie set for everyday for at least a month.
My favorite out of all of them is a silky set in a deep emerald green.
The lace pattern is pretty too; it almost resembles the frost you see on a window during winter.
This set is nothing like the ensemble I wore at El Santuario.
That one was simply a costume for a role I was playing that night. This…this feels different–dangerous.
I went twenty-six years without ever wearing anything as sensual and unapologetically feminine as this until just a few weeks ago. Now, I have sets upon sets.
A reckless thought and need pass through me. I need to see myself with this one. To see if my body is actually a masterpiece or if the clothing at El Santuario just did its job a little too well.
The fabric is cool against my skin, and it feels almost like an intimate caress as I shift around in it. I fasten the clasp at the front, twist it towards the back, and slip my arms through the straps. The mirror in the back of the closet reflects that stranger again.
The woman from El Santuario is back. Her beautiful, round hips and full breasts are on display against the rich green, making her skin look golden. The strategic cuts in the lace help define the curves of my abdomen.
I remember that fateful mirror, and the feeling of a hundred unseen eyes on me. I felt like prey more than an Ofrenda, but now I stand in the cold, perfect silence of Ernesto Damos’s closet.
I walk out of the closet and into the vast bedroom with just the lingerie on and head towards the floor-length mirror on my side of the bed.
Standing before it, examine myself. Turning slightly right and then left.
Admiring how the silk shimmers when the light hits it just right.
My hands roam around my abdomen and breast just to feel how perfectly the set feels on me.
My hair is down, a cascade of wild dark waves falling over my shoulders and down my back. For a moment, I’m not Alejandra, or Mrs. Damos. I’m just a woman learning to appreciate the body that has carried her through so much in her life.
The bedroom door clicks open, and my head snaps behind me.
My breath catches in my throat because none other than Ernesto is standing frozen in the doorway.
His suit jacket is slung over his shoulder, his tie loose, and the top buttons of his white shirt undone.
His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked solely on me.
His gaze sweeps over my body, from the top of my head down to my bare feet on the plush carpet.
The quiet confidence I felt moments ago is gone, replaced by the raw, jarring awareness of being caught in such a vulnerable state.
Neither one of us moves. We just stare at each other from across the room.
My body is paralyzed, my heart hammering against my chest so hard and fast I can feel it against my ribcage.
The silence stretches, taut and suffocating.
He doesn’t say a word, but his gaze is heavy enough to keep pinning me in place.
Slowly, he closes the door behind him. The click sounded so loud in the room's silence. He drops his jacket on a nearby armchair as he walks to his side of the bed, his eyes never leave my body. He undoes his cuff links and rolls up his sleeves to expose his forearms.
My mind finally comes back to life and reminds me I’m nearly naked in the presence of my husband. I reach for the black silk robe I’d left draped over the foot of the bed, snatching it, and with clumsy fingers wrap it around my body, pulling the sash tight.
Ernesto stops at his bedside table and places his watch and phone down, but he still hasn’t spoken a word. I’ve learned that he uses his silence as a weapon, and he’s an expert on how to wield it. Letting the tension build until whoever it’s directed to feels like they’ll break. In this case, me.
I let my anger from earlier come back stronger than his silence makes me feel. I feel it pushing past the shock and past the vulnerability.
“She cried herself to sleep, Ernesto,” I say, breaking the silence, moving towards the front of the bed.
Ernesto continues his nightly routine, unbuckling his belt, and his back is to me. He doesn’t even try to acknowledge what I say.
“Camilla,” I press on, my voice gaining some confidence. “She waited three hours for you, and had an entire party planned, with cookies and a crown waiting for you.”
The silence stretches again, a deliberate dismissal–ignoring me, and that just won’t do. Treating me like I’m nothing more than a faint buzzing sound in the room only makes me angrier.
“She told me what you promised. That you would make more time for her, is that what your promises are worth, Ernesto? Nothing?”
He turns his face, his expression of pure exhaustion. The lines around his eyes are deeper than I’ve seen them these past few days. There’s no warmth, no flicker of the man who smiled at his daughter this morning during breakfast.
“Are you done?”
“No, I’m not done!” I take a step toward him, the silk robe swishing around my thighs.
“You can’t just go around making promises to your little girl and breaking them without a second thought.
Do you realize she worships the ground you walk on?
Camilla hung on to your every word this morning, and you just…
You could have called. Do you have any idea how much that hurt her?
A muscle ticks on his jaw. “I was in a meeting.”
“A meeting? You gotta be fucking kidding me. Is a meeting more important than your daughter? She set a place for you at her tea table, Ernesto. A tiny, plastic plate, with a cookie and everything. She waited for three fucking hours.”
My accusation hangs in the air between us. I see a flicker of guilt in his eyes before it shifts to annoyance. But even that emotion is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by his familiar face of control. He’s building his walls, brick by infuriating brick.
“My business is none of your concern,” he states plainly.
“Camilla is my concern! You made her my concern the moment you made me set foot into this house. You can treat me like an accessory, I don’t care. But you will not break that little girl’s heart and expect me just to stand by and say nothing.”
That’s what finally breaks his icy demeanor. My challenge to his authority. He moves so quickly that I don’t have enough time to react. In two long strides, he closes the distance between us, his large presence overwhelming my senses.
Ernesto doesn’t touch me, but I can feel his heat radiating from his body. I’m forced to crane my neck to look up at him, my breath catching in my throat.
“You think you have some type of right because you have that fucking ring?” He whispered venomously against my face, his hot breath flowing over my face.
“You have no right to demand any answer from me. No right to question my decisions. You are here to perform a role. In public, you are my wife, a mother to my child only when I require it, and in this room…” his eyes drop to the opening of my robe, to the hint of green lace beneath it. “…you will remember your place.”
His gaze travels back to my face, and the look in his eyes sends a shiver down my back. It’s a look of possession, of dark and predatory intent.
“You have been in my home for less than a day. Y me parece que estás confundida de cómo funcionan las cosas entre los dos.” He grabs at the sash on my robe and undoes the knot.
“You are my Ofrenda, Alejandra. An expensive gift I purchased for myself.
You should start realizing your roles here aren't up for negotiation.
I should be used to his insults, but they still sting. His cruel words were designed to remind me of my powerlessness. But mixed with fear is something else, something shameful and traitorous. I hadn’t felt this way since that night with El Heraldo.
I swallow hard; my throat is suddenly dry. I refuse to look away, refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
“Te guste o no, soy tu dueno hasta que me de mi regalada gana. Y más te vale que aprendas a obedecerme, porque aquí, en esta casa, mi palabra es ley.”
His lips curve into a cold, predatory smile. He sees the conflict in my eyes, my battle between defiance and submission, and it seems to amuse the prick.
“Maybe I need to start treating you the way an Amo truly treats his Ofrenda,” he murmurs, his voice a smoky caress that sends another tremor, but this time throughout my entire body.
The air around me thickens, charged with a dark energy that seems to pull me closer to him. My every instinct tells me to walk away, to run from this man, but my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my chest. Not only from fear, but an undeniable, and sickening, flicker of arousal.
Ernesto’s eyes hold mine, so dark and commanding. There’s no need to raise his voice because his authority is absolute—an Amo’s command woven into the very fabric of his Ofrenda.
“Get on your knees.”
His command is quiet, but it hits me with the force of a physical blow. The world narrows to his unwavering gaze and the space between us. My mind rebels against his words. The anger towards this man makes me want to scream, no. I am not his plaything, and I am not his submissive doll.
But per our contract, I am, and my body…it betrays me. A wave of heat flushes down my body and gathers at the apex of my thighs. My knees feel weak, and my breath becomes shaky. I stare up at him, jaw clenched, body trembling with my internal struggle for my pride—a second passes, then two.
His expression hardens as more seconds pass by. The hint of amusement vanishes and is replaced by an icy glare that freezes the blood in my veins. It’s not a look of anger, but of unquestionable dominance. It’s the look of a king who has just been defied by someone lesser than him.
It’s in that look that I see it. My resistance is futile. The overwhelming power he holds, not just over my life, but in this very room, over my body, makes the fight drain straight out of me. Leaving behind only my fear and a kindling of shameful curiosity.
In shame, I drop my eyes from his eyes to the floor. Slowly and shakily, I lower myself down to my knees. The silk robe pools around me as I sink to the floor, the thick fiber of the carpet pressing into my skin.
Here I am, on my knees before him—my master.
My Amo.