Snorkeling and going to town with Tomás is my new routine; the rest of my time is spent mostly around the small hotel boutiques where I vent my frustrations by buying new clothes. Who would've known that shopping could be therapeutic? My mom would have a fit about my wasteful and vain attitude.

Bettina prefers to spend her days at the hotel with her husband cooing around her. After the first introduction, Ramon apparently is no longer required to attend Miguel's important meetings; a fact that causes a pang of envy to drill into my heart like a constant dull ache. I feel like a reject. The few times I see Miguel, his face is strained with tension. That scares me enough to tiptoe on eggshells around him. When he announces that we'll depart tomorrow, I'm relieved.

"Any special plans for your last day?" He graces me with a gaze that lasts longer than a second as he runs the brush through his unruly hair for the dozenth time without seeing much of a result.

"No, not really. Tomás said there's a special market in town we might go to."

"Oh, good. I hope he's been behaving himself."

"Yeah, he's been"—I crinkle my nose, trying to find the right word—"nice."

The brush stops midstroke. "Nice?"

"I mean, it's Tomás, so that doesn't mean much."

"Yes, I suppose you two never really got along. I'm sorry you got stuck with him. But I tell you what"—the smile doesn't hit his eyes—"let's have a nice dinner tonight. Don't be back too late."

The market turns out to be massive with stalls scattered not only in the center of town but along the narrow streets. After Tomás feeds me about twenty different kinds of local pastries and sweets, I'm close to a sugar coma and have a burning thirst. To top it off, my feet hurt from walking in my new sandals. A nasty blister is forming on the back of my heel.

"I need a break. Let's sit down somewhere and have a coffee."

"Sounds good."

As he guides me through a group of dickering merchants, my gaze falls on a stand with beautiful bracelets. I stop to take a closer look. Elaborate silver shapes surround different gemstones and end in a plain silver band that's adjustable on the bottom.

Tomás's fingers trace one of the shapes. "Those are star-sign bracelets. What sign are you?"

"Scorpio."

He whips his head around. "That's this month."

"Yeah, my birthday is actually tomorrow."

"Then you should definitely get it. Kind of like a present for yourself."

"You think?" The bracelet he picks up does look nice, and the way the sign is formed is very unique. "How much is it?"

"Don't worry about it. I'm an expert at bargaining."

After some back and forth in Spanish, a few bills exchange hands, and my bracelet disappears in a small plastic bag. With a grin, Tomás hands it to me.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Forget it. I'll get the money back from Miguel."

After our coffee, we decide to go back to the resort. I spend the afternoon at the pool with Bettina yapping about how excited she is to get back home to her son and my nice dinner turns into a rushed snack at the pool bar. When Miguel disappears again for one last business meeting, I'm not even surprised.

The next day, we touch down in Malaguay just as the sun is swallowed up like a fireball by the shadows of the mountains. Hopping out of the plane, a chilled breeze caresses my skin. I indulge in the freshness of the air, trying to get the stench of the cigars out of my nose. How can anyone smoke something that repulsive?

Goosebumps spread on my bare arms and Miguel wraps his jacket around my shivering shoulders. "You can catch a cold coming back to this cooler climate, so you need to dress warmly in the next few days."

The return trip has tired me out and my stomach is a little tight. "Maybe I should take a few more days off before going back on patrol."

Miguel raises his brows at Tomás. "You didn't tell her?"

"Nope." Tomás's lips are reduced to a thin line. "As you know, I don't agree, so why should I be the one breaking the news to her? She's your girlfriend."

I glance from face to face. "What's going on, guys?"

Miguel nonchalantly picks up a couple of bags and starts to carry them to the car. "I've decided that you don't need to work anymore," he says over his shoulder. "It's too dangerous. Besides, as my wife, I'm supposed to take care of you. It's not like you'll need the money."

My jaw drops as I gaze at Tomás for help.

He shrugs. "Don't look at me, princess. Miguel's the boss."

I want to growl at Miguel that this is my decision, but a quick glare from him shuts me up. His eyes are as dark as the approaching nightfall; he won't allow any opposition in front of his men.

"I should go home." Tomás stretches, yawning openly. "Shauna was crying a lot on the phone these last few days since my sister has been giving her a hard time. She needs some tender loving care, or God forbid, she might have a miscarriage and we'll have to start all over again." He winks at me. "Not that I'd mind. I love sex."

My cheeks burn. The part of the trip where he insinuated about his sexual preferences, I'd rather forget.

"I'll ask Naiara to make Bettina the maid of honor," Miguel says. "Preparing the wedding might be too much for Shauna in her condition."

My mouth opens in protest, but both their glares shut me up this time.

"Shauna will be disappointed, but it might be for the best." Tomás grabs his travel bag and flings it over his shoulder. "See you later."

On our way home, I pout, but Miguel ignores me. He has the laptop open, scrolling through emails that have his forehead wrinkled. When he mumbles the F-bomb under his breath, the temperature drops considerably in the car.

"Is everything all right?" I carefully probe.

"Uhum." His eyes don't leave the computer screen once. It's like I'm not even there.

With a silent sigh, I sink back into the soft leather, staring into the sunset that surrounds the mountains with a surreal twilight. Tears are bitten back as my mind drifts to my family. My mom would've baked a birthday cake today, decorating it with exactly nineteen candles and tacky sugar roses. It's our family tradition; pink roses for the girls and little footballs for my dad and Owen. Every year the same—just with an additional candle in the circle.

What are they doing this very moment?

Knowing them, they're probably at the church to say a prayer for their troubled daughter. That is, if they even acknowledge my birthday at all. For all I know, they have disowned me; kicked me out of the family like my mom's friend did when her daughter came home with a girlfriend. When my mother told us, her eyelid twitched; her sign of utter disapproval.

"Are you okay, baby?" Miguel strokes my back. His eyes are still glued to the laptop. Shocking he even noticed my sullen mood.

"Uhum," I mutter to show him how it feels to be fobbed off with a grunt.

He doesn't get the hint, tapping with rapt attention over the keyboard.

I glare at the email that has been keeping his attention longer than I have in the last week. It's total gibberish. "What language is that?"

His fingers freeze and he turns his head. "It's encrypted."

I wrap my arms around myself. The coldness in his voice is so contrary to his blazing eyes. He's in one of his moods where it's wise to stay as far away from him as possible.

I twist away from him and stare out the window. "I think I'll go to bed when we get home. My head is killing me and I'm really tired."

"Yeah, that might be best." He resumes his typing. "I still have a lot of work to do. We can go out for your birthday some other time."

My insides twist around my heart like a spiky ball. The fact that he knows it's my birthday without acknowledging it hurts even worse than his ignorance. A few tears go rogue and I quickly wipe my eyes.

He closes the laptop with a sigh. "I'm sorry. You probably think I'm an insensitive jerk, but I struggle with birthdays. My mom was killed on my eighth birthday, so it's a day I'd rather forget. I know it's stupid, and you shouldn't have to pay for my childhood traumas." He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "Happy birthday, baby. If you want, we can go out and celebrate."

"No, it's okay." After his confession, I feel like a fool. My problems growing up are petty compared to all the nightmares he went through. "Maybe some other time when you aren't stressed out." I trace the lines under his eyes with my thumb. "You look really tired."

"I'm exhausted. It has been a long week." He stuffs the laptop into his backpack and slides his arm around my shoulders. "I wouldn't mind snuggling for a bit." His lips nibble my ear. "I could even give you a birthday massage."

With a long exhale, the tension leaves my body. His hot breath brushes against my neck and melt my insides. When his hand lands on forbidden territory, my hips arch into him.

"God, you turn me on," he mumbles. "I can't believe I have to still wait four weeks before I can finally make love to you."

I go rigid in his arms despite the spreading tingling sensation in my lower region. "Four weeks? That's less than a month." I straighten at the same time I enclose his hand to stop the distraction. "I thought the wedding was planned for March next year."

"Nope. My father wants it done before Christmas." The nibbling on my earlobe continues. "I also figured if we get married in the next four weeks, we could combine our honeymoon with the Christmas vacation. It'll be nice to visit your family over the holidays."

That does have an appealing ring to it. My grip loosens and I get lost in the gentleness of his touch. At least the wedding preparations will go by quickly with an end in sight. After all, if matters escalate again and I decide to leave, being married to Miguel is a must if I ever want to get my citizenship back.

~~~~

The alarm clock stays silent the next morning and I don't wake up until almost noon. The space next to me in the bed is cold. Miguel probably started his day at the crack of dawn and won't be home until tonight. Even though we spent an amazing evening in the whirlpool together, his constant mood swings are jarring, leaving me empty and wanting.

Naiara is having a late breakfast on the terrace with her sister, Ana, who's devouring a stack of chocolate chip pancakes while Naiara is having one of her designer lattes. When I join them, their conversation halts. We do our obligatory morning-hug thingy and I sit down.

"Pregúntarle," Ana hisses.

With questioning eyes, I gaze at Naiara. My Spanish is still rusty since my lessons are sporadic, but even I have learned that pregúntarle means ask her.

"Ana wants to know if she can be a junior bridesmaid."

"I don't see why not." I smile at Ana, even though I can't stand looking at her. She reminds me of Felipe and our happy times on the internet. Ana had been the center of many of our conversations. It's a void that won't be filled easily, no matter how hard Miguel tries to make me forget his cousin. To top it off, the whole Charo-setup leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Felipe was the ultimate loser, who paid with his life. That he shared women with Tomás is still a flaw my mind refuses to accept.

The kitchen help sets a big platter of pancakes soaked in syrup in front of me, together with my usual glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. The chocolate chips melt on my tongue. This is actually a lifestyle I could get accustomed to. Being waited on and never worrying about chores or gardening work has its perks.

"So what have you planned for today?" I ask Naiara between bites.

"Miguel told me this morning that Bettina will be your new maid of honor. I thought we could stop by her house and get aligned on the bridal dresses and hairstyles."

I almost roll my eyes. The whole affair sounds not only incredibly boring, but I will have to endure more baby talk; maybe even have to witness little Josué in action. The prospect of baby fussing gives me a headache.

Ana whines in Spanish until Naiara allows her to come, and we take off in the armored Hummer that is usually reserved for the president with a security detail. While I was enjoying the beaches of Colombia, the rebels have caused new havoc, and Santino wants his wife protected whenever she leaves the mansion.

We take a road that leads us along the outskirts of the city until we reach an area in the mountains I have never been to before. Houses that are almost the size of the mansion are nestled in between the trees and the whole area is secured by checkpoints manned with child soldiers. Even by American standards, the area screams utter wealth.

Bettina and Ramon's estate is lined with an orchid garden, the sweet smell overbearing. A few workers are building a playground next to the trees; a huge castle-style slide is just being painted in a vibrant red next to the skeletons of a triple swing set. The sandpit is almost the size of our garden at home. Once Josué is bigger and can enjoy this state-of-the-art equipment, he'll have a blast.

Bettina is curled up with a book on a hammock and greets us with the widest smile. Her son is sleeping next to her in a crib. After she mumbles a few words to the maid in Spanish, the girl carefully scoops up the baby and tiptoes away.

I glance around, taking note of a big flat-screen TV with surround sound system in the living room. "Nice. I didn't even know they had all this luxury in Malaguay."

Naiara snorts. "Are you kidding? The leading families always lived in this area. We call it the Forbidden Hills since the people from town aren't allowed up here unless it's for work."

It's sure not something Tomás taught us during basic training. The soldiers in my class all grew up in town or in one of the mountain villages, and they were often voluntarily turned over by their families when they couldn't keep up with the nutritional needs of growing teenagers. Most of them were used to only one meal per day; the food at the mess hall I've always found repulsive is a real treat for them. Joining the army was their one chance to escape poverty and possible starvation. The luxury of Bettina's home would be a slap in the face for them.

We start with the wedding planning and Naiara and Bettina get lost in extravagant details. When they get to personalized placemats, I've heard enough.

"Where's the bathroom?"

Bettina points at the living room. "Right through there on your left. Do you want me to show you?"

"No, I'm sure I can find it."

Sliding open the terrace door, I'm almost scared to step onto the impeccable polished white marble that tiles the living room floor. A fine-woven Oriental rug is underneath the leather couch and the granite coffee table in the center. I scan an odd modern-art painting. Stepping closer to make out the artist, I gasp when I see the name.

Holy cow, it's Pablo Picasso.

"It's not an original but only a lithography."

With a startle, I spin around. General Varela, Ramon's dad, is sitting behind a desk in the adjacent study, watching me with a cool smile through the open door.

"How can you afford all this stuff when people go hungry?" I blurt out with a frown.

"Oh, Stacy, please. Don't tell me you seriously thought that everyone except for the first family lives in poverty." With a small chuckle, he rises and strolls over to me. "Malaguay is a dictatorship—always has been and always will be. Those of us at the top take care of each other. Our children's marriages are arranged to keep the vermin out, and the jobs that matter are passed on from one generation to the next. One day, after Miguel becomes president, Ramon will be his closest advisor."

"What about Bettina and me? We're not part of your little club." Despite my best efforts, my words are laced with hostility.

His smile turns even thinner. "Boys can be stubborn and sometimes revolt by wanting to choose their own wives. Bettina is poor trash, but she's appreciative of her new life and she loves Ramon. You, on the other hand"—he cocks his head—"you have other qualities."

I lift a brow. "Other qualities?"

"Don't play dumb, Stacy. Having an American marry into the first family will elevate Malaguay's image on a global level." He narrows his eyes. "Yet what I haven't figured out is what you're hoping to get out of this marriage. Truthfully, with Miguel's bad temper, I'm surprised you haven't tried to break off the engagement."

I can't hold his gaze. "I love Miguel."

His chuckle is like a growl this time. "People gossip, Stacy. I know he raped you and I also know you're not happy with him. Maybe you're scared to leave or maybe you have no place to go. Whatever it is, you should watch your back, because I will personally kill you if you ever try to harm Malaguay or the president. Make no mistake—I've never trusted an American and I never will. Loyalty to your country is bred into you and I have my eyes on you. One wrong move and you are gone. Miguel won't be able to stop me."

His words resonate painfully in my head. He's an enemy to watch. If I decide to sell Miguel out to the guy from the warehouse, I wouldn't put it past Varela to hunt me down and make good on his promise even after I return home.

When he keeps staring at me, I twitch. "I should get back to the others."

"Why don't you do that?" The smile has turned into a creepy grimace. "Just remember—I have eyes and ears everywhere."

His gaze stays on me as I rush back onto the terrace. His last statement made me paranoid; for the rest of the day, I imagine microphones and cameras on me wherever I go. From here on out, I will have to proceed with utter caution. General Varela is not someone I will ever underestimate.

~~~~

© Sal Mason 2017

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