“How is he?” I ask Marco as I settle into the Rolls Royce. It feels strange sitting in the back seat when it’s just the two of us but when I tried to slip into the front seat once, I realized quickly how uncomfortable it made him.

“Working too hard and sleeping too little,” Marco says, knowing I mean Santiago. He cares about him. I wonder if Santiago realizes it. If he even sees how many people he has around him who truly care about him. It makes me sad to think he finds himself unlovable.

“And my father?”

“Same as your husband.”

I want to ask more, but I don’t. He won’t tell me anything else.

We’re silent on the drive to Colette and Jackson’s Garden District house. It’s a sunny day, the temperature warmer than it’s been in a while. I have always loved spring in New Orleans. I’m wearing a simple cotton dress and a light sweater, and you can see my rounding belly clearly now. It’s a small bump, but it’s definitely there, and I put my hand over it, waiting for the day I feel the first little flutters of movement. According to the books Santiago bought me, it’ll be a few weeks before that happens, though.

When we get to Colette and Jackson’s house, Marco grumbles something under his breath as he turns onto the circular drive to park behind the other Rolls Royce that’s already there, the driver standing outside smoking a cigarette. The man looks into the windshield at us but doesn’t smile or greet us. Instead, he takes the last drag of his cigarette and flips the butt onto the manicured lawn.

“Prick,” Marco says.

“Who is he?” I ask, but before he gets a chance to answer, the front door opens, and Cornelius Holton walks briskly out of the house, his face red, his step angry and hurried.

I want to shrink away and hide. I will never forget that man. Never forget how he looked at me, how his fingers felt when he opened my robe as I’d tried to cover myself that horrible morning before the wedding.

God. I feel sick. But instead of allowing myself to cower, I take a deep breath in to steel myself. I narrow my gaze and look at him straight on.

He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that it almost appears to surprise him when he sees our car, and he stops momentarily. Through the windshield, his eyes alight on me. Not Marco but me.

And I don’t look away.