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“Nothing you need to see,” Santiago says, taking my hand and walking me the rest of the way down the stairs and back out to our car. He helps me into the passenger side, and this time, I can appreciate it.
“What is this car?” I ask when he gets in.
“It's an Aston Martin.” He pulls out of IVI, and I see the gates close in the side mirror.
“Can we drive around a little? I don’t want to go home yet. Just have some fun maybe.”
“Fun?” he asks, almost confused by the word.
I reach over and put my hand on his thigh. “Fun. It means doing something you enjoy.”
“I enjoy many things I wouldn’t call fun.”
I sigh, the relief still a palpable thing. “Please?”
He glances at me, then back to the road and nods slowly exactly once.
“Yay! You think I could drive?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
* * *
When we get home late that night, Antonia has an elaborate dinner prepared for us. We sit down to eat, the candles feeling more romantic tonight than before. But as I sip on my half-glass of wine, which he allowed since we know I’m not pregnant, and after The Tribunal, well, I earned it, my mind wanders to our lie. To a few nights ago. To the baby and the reasons for having one.
If it came down to it, we could say I had a miscarriage as far as IVI is concerned. I’m sure Santiago could pull that off. But there’s so much more going on that I don’t know.
“Santiago?” I ask when we’re at dessert.
“Yes?”
“What did The Councilor mean when he said this was the second attempt on your life?”
“My, what big ears you have,” he says lightly, but his mood darkens palpably.
“Tell me.”
“It’s not a matter for you.” He puts his fork down after only having a bite of the chocolate cake and wipes his mouth.
“Does it have to do with my family?”
He sits silent, watching me.
“The other attempt on your life, does it have to do with us? Is it why you hate anyone with the last name Moreno?”
“Stop, Ivy.”
“Is it why you chose me?”
His phone buzzes, and he glances at it. It’s been beside him on the table, but he’s ignored it mostly. He pushes his chair back. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” he says, emphasis on the word you.
“But my family, though?” I remember how he’s accused me of being a Moreno as if it is a horrible thing.
“Enough.” He stands. “I need to take care of some things, and you need to get to bed. It’s late.”
“I’m not finished.”
He glances at the single bite of cake still on my plate. “All right. Finish.”
I break the piece in half and put one part into my mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me Evangeline had come to see me?” She mentioned it in one of her letters. She’d taken the bus to get here, an hour of travel time, and she’d been turned away at the door.
He sits back down. “Do I need to remind you of the circumstances?”
I grit my jaw and cut the other already bite-size piece into an even smaller one. “Can I see her? And my dad?”
“Not your father.”
“Why not? What harm could it do? You know now it wasn’t me who tried to kill you. You know someone set me up too. Doesn’t that put us on the same side for once?”
“That’s enough.” He stands again and pulls out my chair. “Go to bed.”
“He loved you. Did you know that?”
There’s that tic again. And a flicker of emotion. “Go to bed, Ivy. Now.”
“You were like a son to him. His favorite son, in fact. It’s why Abel hates you. I used to be jealous of you, too. Did you know that?”
He draws in a sharp breath. “Your father did not love me,” he says tightly with an emotion he’s trying to hide. “If you hate him, that’s for different reasons.”
“Hate him? I don’t hate him. I’m sick with worry for him, and you won’t let me see him, and I don’t understand why.” Now, I stand. “Especially now. After the other night.”
“The other night? What does the other night have to do with anything?”
“We talked about a baby.”
“An heir.”
“A baby. A life! And you said he’d be loved.”
“I said I would do what is necessary. I never used the word love. That was you, Ivy.”
I falter. Did I misread things? The emotion I thought I saw? The connection we’d made?
His phone vibrates with yet another message, and his expression turns ugly as he replies to it. “Go to your room.” He takes a step to leave.
“My room. Not yours?”
He stops, then turns back to me. “I sleep alone. It’s better—”
“It’s not better. I’m your wife!” I push the chair in, but it catches on the carpet, and I have to pick it up to do it.
