Santiago, though? In a way, that hurts just as much. Maybe more. His hate for my father was far greater than any affection, any feeling at all he could have had for me. Because no matter what he says, I know the truth. It’s too convenient otherwise. A heart attack? Something the doctor’s missed when they’ve been keeping such a close eye on him? I don’t believe it.

I get out of bed to use the bathroom. When I’m finished, I stand at the sink and study my reflection as I wash my hands. I look a wreck. My face is gaunt, dark circles under my eyes matching those of Santiago’s tattoo. I turn my head a little to look at the dot of ink. It seems so long ago, so far away. We survived that. He and I survived it. We have broken through so many obstacles set against us, some by him, some by others, but we came through together somehow.

I fell in love with him somehow.

God. I am crazy.

I switch off the water and dry my hands, looking down at my rounded stomach. There’s a baby inside there. Our child. What will happen when he or she is here? I can’t even begin to think about that.

I walk back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. I am tired of this room. This bed. This place. I am tired.

On the nightstand, I see the box he left and touch the pendant still lying against my chest. The diamond-encrusted rose. A gift when I became pregnant. A symbol not of love or affection but of my belonging to the De La Rosa family. My belonging to him. Like the tattoo on the back of my neck that I sometimes swear throbs to be touched. To be acknowledged. As if the ink is somehow connected to him. Like it needs to be near him.

I pick up the box and read the engraved logo. Montblanc.

Odd. But then I remember.

I lean back against the bed and bring my knees up, tucking my bare feet beneath the blankets. I lay my head against the headboard, and I remember that day. I’d been thirteen. I’d just gotten home from the new school. That awful school. I’d been teased for days, and I’d finally had enough. I hadn’t seen Santiago in my father’s study when I’d stormed in. Not until after my tantrum did I see him.

He didn’t have his tattoo then. He was younger. Not boyish, though. I would never describe Santiago as boyish, even then.

My father had asked me to give him this box. I remember his apology that he hadn’t had a chance to wrap it. I’ve only seen one box like it in my life. My father’s. But his came in royal blue, not black.