"No." He clenches his hands on the bed railings, trying to drag his slumping body farther upright. "You are twisting reality to suit your own paranoia."

"Am I?" I laugh caustically. "And would I be twisting reality to remind you that you were the one who called me the night of the explosion? Too sick to go in, you said. That's how Leandro and I ended up there with our father. That's how I lost both of them. Because you set that chain of events into motion with one phone call, banking on the fact that I would help you."

My voice continues to rise as I do, looming over him as I clutch his hospital gown, lowering my face to his as I snarl the truth.

"You made me believe that you were a trusted friend and advisor. And you were the one who betrayed me."

Realization dawns on his face, and he shakes his head in denial. "No, Santiago. You have it all wrong. I was sick that night. I was vomiting uncontrollably. Believe me, if you think I haven't considered that very fact… that I sent you there, and what happened... it could have been myself and my own son. I have thought of it every day since it happened. I never stop thinking of it."

My hands fall away from his shirt, and I stumble back, angry with myself for giving him the opportunity to defend himself when he doesn't deserve it. I thought of him as a father once. Someone to look up to. Someone I admired. And now, he is a shriveled husk of a man who still has not one ounce of honor to his name.

"Your days are numbered, Eli," I inform him as I move toward the door. "And as for your son? You can consider him dead. When I find him, there won't be a soul on this earth who can save him."

14

Ivy

I can’t get Mercedes’s words out of my head. Can’t stop seeing her face, the hate in it. What she said, what she suggested, it’s what I’ve been thinking. It’s the thought that’s been in the back of my mind since Santiago rescued me from the doctor who would abort our baby and brought me home. But it’s not that alone that’s bothering me. Before coming into this house, before having the De La Rosa siblings in my life, I never felt hated. And being hated is different than being ignored or even disliked. It’s almost a palpable thing, a weighted thing.

And the fact that Mercedes hates me shouldn’t bother me. I know that. And I can live with it, but it’s what she said and how it just confirms what I’ve been worrying about. That this new Santiago, this kinder, better man, the doting husband, it’s a ruse. Not real.

And she saw right through me.