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As Victor transfers the dishes and fusses with the table, I have a little time to think some more about how to get out of this mess.
While showering, I went through the options. None of them good—at least not in the short term.
Plotting an escape might take weeks, maybe longer. Since I know nothing about his timeline, we could be married before an opportunity presents itself.
I can play along with his marriage plans until I gain his trust, and then beg him to send Isabel and Valentina money. It could work, but it’s too soon to know. Plus, it’ll take time to convince him that I’m fully on board—unless I expedite the process by having sex with him.Ugh.
My last option is to simply offer to trade sex for money for Isabel.Double ugh.Besides, I doubt Antonio needs to barter to find a woman to have sex with him.But you need to try. Maybe, but not yet.
As revolting as it sounds right now, if we marry, I’ll end up having sex with him anyway. I have no illusions about it. Why shouldn’t it be on my terms? Women have used this ploy successfully throughout history—men too. I glance at the red imprint on my arm, and my stomach churns. This isn’t how I expected my life to turn out.
I’m not proud of toying with prostitution—that’s essentially what it is—but I don’t see a better alternative. Even if Isabel can sell what’s left of the jewelry, it won’t keep a roof over their heads for long. They’re going to need money to live—to eat. They’re in the US because of me. I made the choice to flee six years ago, against Isabel’s better judgment. I’m responsible for them.
I need to proceed on all fronts. I don’t have enough time to let things play out.
It could be worse, Daniela. He could be a stranger.An unattractive stranger who smells of stale booze and hasn’t seen a dentist in years.
I glance at his unshaven jaw, then to the way his sleeves are rolled to just below the elbows, the white, crisp cotton hugging his sun-kissed forearms.
How many times have you dreamed about his hands on you—his mouth?Too many to count.
When he reaches for the bottle of wine, the cords in his forearms contract, and I feel the tug of arousal, taunting me. I don’t want sex with him.I don’t. My brain doesn’t, anyway. My traitorous body is another matter entirely.
The struggle between what my brain knows and what my body craves—what it’s always craved—is making me dizzy. It’s been that way since—forever, it seems. Since my mother died, anyway. Before that, my brain and body worked in tandem. They both wanted the same thing.Him. Only him.
What could you possibly have known about sexual desire?
I might not have known it by that name, but I knew about the longing. The tingling between my legs that came on at night, when I lay in my bed and fantasized about him kissing me. The ache that could only be soothed with friction. I knew all about those things. They were my dirty little secrets.
You were a child. The same age as Valentina.
But what about all the dreams and the fantasies that came later? What about last year? Or last month, when you woke up panting after dreaming about him, wanting nothing more than to slide your fingers into your pussy, even though Valentina was asleep in the bed a few feet away? You weren’t a child then.
It’s only when I remember Valentina that good sense prevails—at least for now.
I can’t just do nothing.What if I can’t escape? What if I’m stuck here forever?I need to do something. It’s honestly that simple.
“You need to eat,” Antonio says gently. “Starving yourself isn’t going to do you any good. You need a clear head. Otherwise you’ll start making bad decisions. That would be unfortunate.”
He doesn’t say unfortunatefor you, but it’s implied.
“If you’d like me to eat,” I say casually, “maybe we could have dinner without any more threats. Otherwise my stomach won’t be able to tolerate food.”
I smooth my napkin in my lap without looking at him. The suggestion wasn’t snarky, but I’m sure it won’t sit well with him.
19
Daniela
“Do you have everything you need upstairs?” he asks, after a few minutes of silence. While he never agreed to stop the threats, the question and his tone make me think he might have taken my request to heart.
“Yes.” In some ways, much more than I need. In other ways, I’m missing important pieces.
“In a day or two, you’ll have access to a credit card and a bank account. You should feel free to order anything you need—although you can use it for whatever you’d like. It’s not limited to necessities.”
“An allowance. How civilized.” I didn’t mean to say the last part. The last thing I want right now is to goad him.
He takes a drink of wine and places the glass on the table carefully.
