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Xavier’s shoulders relaxed, as if my words had somehow lifted a weight off them.
We were different in so many ways, but sometimes, all people needed was one point of commonality. One infinitesimal thing that made them feel less alone.
I swallowed past the hitch in my throat.
We were the only people in the main cabin. Our private flight attendants were in the kitchen, preparing lunch, but the distant clink of plates and silverware soon faded beneath the thuds of my heartbeat.
Xavier and I stared at each other, both recognizing the lazy swirl of tension in the air, but neither acknowledging it.
I wanted to look away. Ishouldlook away, but his gaze held mine captive, its tumultuous depths sparking with an emotion I couldn’t identify.
I swallowed again, and something else flared in those hot, dark eyes before they made a slow descent over my face, tracing the slope of my nose, the curve of my mouth, and the point of my chin before gliding down my neck. They settled at the base of my throat, where my pulse fluttered with wild abandon.
The same pesky butterflies that’d snuck into my stomach during our dance lessons broke free again. Only this time, I couldn’t blame it on the alcohol.
I was stone-cold sober, and I—
“Mr. Castillo, Ms. Kensington, would you like something to drink before we serve lunch?” Our attendant’s smooth voice tossed a bucket of ice water over the moment.
The tension fizzled with an inaudiblepopas Xavier and I yanked our gazes apart.
“Water.” His smile looked forced. “Thank you, Petra.” “Same.” I cleared my throat of its hoarseness. “Thank you.”
We ate our lunch in silence. However, even though we didn’t discuss our pasts again, a sense of connection lingered.
Xavier and I weren’t the first or last people to miss a parent. But the way we responded to our losses, and the masks we presented to the world…perhaps we were more similar than we realized.
CHAPTER12
Xavier
Thanks to the time difference, we arrived in Bogotá before noon.
My father’s driver was already waiting when we landed, and he whisked us through the city’s winding roads and densely packed neighborhoods with enviable skill.
I was born in Colombia but educated abroad my entire life. I spent more time in the halls of boarding schools than I did at home, and I’d only visited my birthplace twice since my father was diagnosed with cancer last year.
The first had been after the diagnosis. The second had been right before my Miami birthday trip, when he’d summoned and berated me for failing to “uphold the family legacy” while he was dying.
If there was one person who’d use their illness to manipulate other people into doing what they wanted, it was Alberto Castillo. “Xavier.” Sloane’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “We’re here.”
I blinked, the pastel haze from the streets morphing into twin guardhouses and fully armed security personnel. Behind the black iron gates, a familiar white mansion rose three stories high, crowned by red tiles and latticed windows.
“Home sweet home.” Sarcasm threaded my words, but a sick feeling stirred in my stomach as we walked inside.
Decades-old smoke clung to the walls, making me nauseous.
My mother had died here. She’d burned alive right on this plot of land, and instead of moving, my father had rebuilt the house right over her deathplace.
People said he wanted to stay close to her in his own morbid way, but I knew the truth. It was his way of punishing me and making sure I never forgot who the real villain was in this house. “You don’t have to stay here,” I told Sloane. Her clean, crisp scent drifted over me, masking echoes of the smoke. “I’ll be happy to book you a suite at the Four Seasons.”
Sloane had visited the Bogotá house before for work, but beneath the shine and luxury, heaviness shrouded the mansion’s foundation. I couldn’t be the only one who felt it.
“Trying to kick me out already? That’s record timing.” “You’ll be more comfortable at a hotel.” We passed by a giant oil portrait of my father. He glared down at us, his face stern and disapproving. “That’s all I meant.”
“Maybe. But I’d rather be here.” Sloane stared straight ahead, her stride purposeful, but warmth flickered in my chest all the same. She was prickly, uptight, and as cuddly as a cactus. Yet somehow, she had a way of making even the worst situations more tolerable.
However, the warmth hardened into ice when we entered my father’s room. His staff had transformed it into a private hospital suite complete with the latest medical technology, a twenty-four-hour rotation of nurses and attendants (all of whom signed ironclad NDAs), and the best care money could buy.
