Chapter 19
Alejandra
"I'm telling you, Sofi, he had this whole elaborate backstory, too. He said those stones had been implanted into his intestines by a rogue faction of Martians who wanted to study the human digestive system. Dr. Andrews almost had an aneurysm."
I laugh, a real, unburdened laugh that starts deep in my belly. "Did anyone tell him that Martian physiology is actually incompatible with human poop production? That usually shuts them up."
"See? This is why I miss you!" Kari points a chip dripping with salsa at me. "Nobody else in the ER appreciates a good sci-fi medical shutdown. It's all 'protocol' and 'patient-centered care' now. So boring."
I mirror her enthusiasm, soaking in the comfortable chaos that is and has always been my best friend.
Mariachi music crackles from a dusty radio in the corner, mingling with the clang of spatulas on the grill and the boisterous laughter from a table of construction workers drinking modelos.
This is my world. Or, more like it used to be.
I know I should make more time for this, for Kari, but the life I'd braced myself to be bored in has turned out to be an endless, exhausting battle of wits.
Most of my days are a blur of lessons I never asked for and never thought I’d ever end up taking.
Consuelo will patiently walk me through the extensive rules of a formal dinner table, her brow furrowed as she explains, for the hundredth time, the functional difference between a salad fork and a dessert fork.
Then there is learning color swatches. Ernesto's interior designer, a woman with a severe bob and an even more severe accent, spent an entire afternoon trying to teach me the distinction between eggshell, ivory, ecru, and cream.
"You see, Mrs. Damos," she'd said, her voice dripping with condescension, "eggshell has a subtle, almost imperceptible undertone of gray, whereas ivory carries a warmer, more golden hue."
I don’t see it. They were all just shades of off-white to me.
But by far the worst are the etiquette classes.
Ernesto enrolled me after a dinner with a shipping fellow executive and his wife.
I'd been so nervous, trying too hard to imitate the effortless grace of the other woman, that I ended up sending a piece of asparagus flying across the table. It landed with a soft plop on Mr. Greyson’s pristine white shirt.
Ernesto's jaw went rigid, a muscle pulsing in a silent, furious rhythm.
The couple, thankfully, laughed it off, calling me a "breath of fresh air. "
That night, however, was anything but fresh. Any time I sit, the memory of it sends a hot, tingling wave through my body, making the back of my neck prickle. Ernesto had waited until the house was silent, and I was undressing, getting ready for bed.
He entered the room all broody and moody as always. So I hadn’t bothered to look up at him, deciding to continue my night routine.
"You embarrassed me tonight, Alejandra." He tells me dryly.
"Ernesto, please it was a complete accident. You can’t possibly think I meant to send the piece of food flying on purpose. Besides, they laughed it off." I say, brushing my hair after I took out the low ponytail it had been in.
"It is a spectacle." He said as he appeared behind me in the mirror. His eyes were dark and unreadable as he gestured to the foot of the massive bed. "Over my lap. Now."
My breath hitched. But it's not because of the command but because of the small device he held between his thumb and forefinger that made my blood run cold, then hot.
It was a mini vibrator, no bigger than a lipstick tube, sleek and black.
He didn't give me time to process as he moved with that predatory grace of his, his hand closing around my arm, pulling me forward with him towards the bed.
He bent me over his knees, the wool of his trousers rough against my cheek.
One hand held me firmly by the nape of my neck while the other deftly slipped the device into my underwear, pressing the smooth, cool plastic against my clit and turning it on.
The vibrations began as a low, insistent hum, a shocking intrusion that made my whole body jolt.
Then, as he settled me more firmly across his thighs, his other hand came down, not in a caress, but in a hard, stinging slap against my ass.
The first hit was pure shock, a sharp explosion of pain that tore a gasp from my lips.
The second was just as hard on the opposite cheek, and the third harder still.
He’d established a brutal, punishing rhythm back and forth between ass cheeks, the heavy crack of his palm against my skin echoing in the silent room.
But a strange sensation was creeping up my body.
The sharp sting of each blow sent a corresponding jolt of pleasure from the vibrator, a white-hot spike that shot straight to my clit.
The pain and the pleasure began to blur, twisting together into something overwhelming, something I couldn't fight.
My hips moved on their own, a desperate, involuntary grind against his legs, but his hand on my neck tightened, holding me in place as his spanking continued, relentless and unforgiving.
The pleasure built into an unbearable pressure, a frantic, climbing wave as I felt my orgasm crest, so violent and all-consuming that my vision tunneled, the lights around the room dissolved into blackness.
That is the second time I have blacked out from how good Ernesto makes me feel when I orgasm.
When I came to, I was lying on the bed, and he was standing over me, fully dressed, looking down with an expression I couldn't decipher.
That is the first night we went to sleep without me having to get him off.
It felt wrong, like I'd failed to complete my side of the transaction.
The next morning, I'd found the courage to ask.
"You didn’t finish last night, were you not satisfied?"
He'd looked up from his coffee, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly arrogant way. "On the contrary, Alejandra. I was thoroughly satisfied. So, leave it alone."
"…and then the flibbertigibbet turned into a purple snarfblatt and demanded all the guacamole."
I snap back to the present, blinking. Kari is staring at me, a wide, mischievous grin on her face.
"Qué?"
"Pinche morra! I knew you weren't listening." She laughs, a loud, wonderful cackle that draws a few glances our way. "You were a million miles away. Or should I say, a million bucks away?" she says, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.
I feel a flush creep up my neck and throw a crumpled paper napkin at her. "I am listening! You were talking about… purple guacamole or something like that."
"Nice try." She ducks, the napkin sailing past her head. We both burst into a fit of laughter, the kind that makes your sides ache and your eyes water. God, I needed this. I needed this slice of normalcy so badly it hurt.
As our laughter subsides, Kari leans forward, her expression taking a serious turn. Her eyes flicker toward the entrance of the restaurant and then back to me. "Okay, but for real, Ale. Who’s that guy?"
I follow her gaze. Three tables away, near the door, sits Hector.
Sitting like a statue carved from granite and silence, nursing a cup of black coffee he hasn’t touched since we sat down.
His eyes aren’t just watching the room; they’re dissecting it.
He’s clocked every person who has walked into this place, every server who’s approached our table, eyeing menacingly towards anyone who even glances too long in our direction.
He’s a silent, unblinking sentinel, and a stark reminder that my life is no longer my own.
I force out a laugh, making it sound brighter than I feel. "Oh, Hector? That's just Ernesto being… Ernesto. You know how he is."
"Actually, no, I don't," Kari says, her voice a low murmur.
"I've never met the guy. But I know that's not normal,” she motions towards Hector, whose eyes are narrowed towards her.
She just waves her fingers at him in her flirty way.
“He looks like he could snap someone's neck for ordering the wrong salsa.
He's been staring daggers at the busboy for ten minutes. I kinda dig it."
I roll my eyes at her; she’s always looking to get into someone's pants. "He's just overly protective. It's overkill, I know. But it comes with the territory of being a billionaire's wife, I guess."
Kari doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go, bless her. The conversation drifts back to safer ground as we talk about the new batch of interns, the ridiculous new charting system, and whether our old favorite taco truck is still on the corner of 4th and Soto. It’s easy and comfortable.
"So, any plans for Día de los Muertos? We should totally go to Olvera Street like we do every year. I mean, your dear husband wouldn’t mind, would he?"
Día de los Muertos. I hadn't let myself think that far ahead, hadn't dared to plan beyond the next sunrise.
But the idea of building an altar, a proper ofrenda, and not a small one tucked away in my room, in the lush, manicured perfection of the Damos garden, would be amazing.
I can picture it vividly: the tiers draped in black velvet, overflowing with cempasúchil, their pungent, earthy scent cutting through the cloying sweetness of the roses.
I can place sugar skulls with glittering eyes, plates of pan de muerto, and glasses of water for the thirsty spirits.
I'd light dozens of candles, their flames flickering like stars.
And in the center, a framed photograph of my Nana Lupe, her smile as warm and comforting as it was in life.
And with a certainty that sent a chill down my spine, I knew I'd have to ask Ernesto for permission.
Not because I think he'd say no—he'd just sponsored a massive public celebration of the holiday, after all.
But in his world, every breath, every action, even one as sacred and personal as honoring the dead, felt like it required a formal, unspoken request for approval.
"I'm going to talk to Ernesto about it," I tell Kari, keeping my voice even. "He's big on tradition, so I don't think he'll have a problem with it. Maybe we can build one in the garden area."
Kari's eyes light up. "Oh my god, Sofi, yes! His garden is probably huge. We could make the most epic ofrenda ever."
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of nostalgia.
We skip dessert and drive to the mercado in Boyle Heights, the back of Hector's SUV quickly filling with the bright orange of cempasúchil bundles. The scent is the smell of my childhood, of autumn, of remembrance and tradition. It’s the scent of my Nana Lupe.
After we drop Kari off back at the hospital parking lot, I ask Hector if we can stop by the cemetery. It’s quiet here; the late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the manicured lawns. Hector stays back by the car, allowing for the illusion of privacy.
I kneel before the simple granite headstone that reads Guadalupe Rivas, Amada Madre y Abuela.
The grief and exhaustion I'd been holding at bay for months, for years, and until recently finally broke free. It’s not a gentle sadness either; it’s bitter and angry.
Tears stream down my face, hot and furious.
"I miss you, Nana," I whisper, my voice choked and raw as I lay the flowers across the cool stone. "Everything's such a mess." I laugh, a harsh, broken sound.
I tell her everything that has happened in the last year.
About papá's cancer, almost taking him from me, how the fear gnaws at me every time I see how much smaller he keeps getting. The anxiety and fear that none of the treatments or surgeries are working, and I’ll lose someone else I can’t live without.
About how her ninito Miguel is off living his Ivy League dream, completely oblivious to the price I paid for it.
And about Ernesto and about the contract. How there’s a coldness in him and about the strange, terrifying heat that’s flared between us.
"I married a monster, Nana. A handsome, terrifying monster. And the worst part about it? Sometimes, I think I'm starting to like it." My confession hangs in the quiet air, ugly and true. I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking from how hard my sobs are.
A shadow falls over me, and I look up to see Hector standing there, his imposing frame blocking the sun. He holds out a neatly folded white handkerchief for me to take.
"Heard you from the car," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. I think it’s the most I've ever heard him say at once.
I take the handkerchief from him, my fingers trembling. "Thank you."
He doesn’t move, just stands there, his gaze fixed on the headstone. "Lost my parents a few years back. Around this same time of the year. This holiday… it hasn’t gotten any easier."
I look up at him, surprised by the crack in his stoic facade.
"I was in your shoes once," he continues, his voice becoming quiet. "Not exactly, but close enough. Caught between a rock and a hard place, making choices I thought I had to make to protect the people I loved. I made the wrong decision. One mistake. And I lost everything."
He finally looks at me, his dark eyes holding a deep, hollow sadness. "You're smarter than I am. You won't make the same mistake."
Hector says it as if it were a simple fact. It’s a glimpse of the man behind the muscle, behind the unblinking surveillance.
"Gracias, Hector," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "For… for letting me have today."
He just gives a single, sharp nod, the mask of the silent bodyguard sliding back into place as he turns and walks back toward the car, leaving me alone once again with my Nana.