“Drunk?” he asked.
“Very. And extremely curious.”
“I have no doubt,” Cristiano said. “I’ll give Natalia a quick tour on our way to the party.”
I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Party?” My life was falling apart, and Cristiano wanted to celebrate? “You can’t be serious.”
“Do you have any laundry?” Jaz asked me, readjusting the strap of my bag on her shoulder.
“I—what? I can unpack myself,” I said, stepping toward her. “I’ll just go to my room if you’ll show me—”
Cristiano took my elbow and drew me back to him. “Jaz has it under control. I want you by my side right now. They’ve put a lot of time and effort into tonight. You’ll make the rounds with me.”
My lips thinned into a line. “You can’t force me to enjoy a party.”
He turned to block Jaz from my view and put his mouth to my ear. “Enjoy it or don’t,” he said quietly. “But you’ll do as I say, and you won’t question me in front of anyone again. Jaz asked you a question. Answer her.”
He straightened up again and I was faced with Jaz’s unreadable expression. The last thing I wanted was to be rude to someone who might be in an even worse situation than I was, but being thrust into a party an hour after my life had been ruined seemed cruel.
“My things are clean,” I said to Jaz. I’d done all my laundry at home before I’d packed. “Except . . .” I glanced at the ruined wedding dress hanging over her shoulder. Even if the delicate lace could be repaired, was there any point?
“Except?” she asked.
“Never mind. It’s all clean.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
“De nada.” Jaz started up a staircase, gripping the iron railing as she climbed the stairs over the front door. She cast me a narrow-eyed glance before disappearing through a rounded doorway.
“It will make my staff happy to know you’re happy to be here,” Cristiano said. “And when my staff is happy, so am I.”
“But I’m not.”
His posture eased with an exhale. He tipped up my chin until our mouths were aligned and he could bend and kiss me if he wanted. “Then fake it for their benefit.”
I dropped my eyes to his lips when he wet them, then quickly turned my face away. “Why should I?”
“I already told you why. It makes me happy. And you want that.” He guided my head forward and waited until our eyes met again. “But if that’s not a good enough reason, then do it because I command it.”
I had a feeling I’d get used to hearing that response. But if I had to endure his will, then he was also stuck with me. I didn’t have to play nice when we were alone. “Fine,” I agreed. “It’ll be good practice anyway.”
“For?”
“Faking what I don’t enjoy.”
He pursed his lips into what could’ve been a smirk. Before he could decide if he was amused or annoyed, footsteps sounded behind me, and Cristiano dropped his hand and stepped back.
The two guards that had stood by Cristiano’s side in the church entered, and we proceeded down a hallway, past a long, wooden bench with muted cushions, to an airy living space that opened to a dining room—but as there were no people in it, it must not have been the one Jaz had just referred to. Though lines and curves anchored the tidied, Old World Spanish-style room, it was warmed by clay pottery over a stone fireplace, a gold-and-maroon tapestry covering one wall of the dining area, and trees in ceramic pots. Flimsy, sheer white curtains were drawn halfway, and windowed doors showcased a covered concrete patio with dining tables and couches, and a sizeable pool that rippled with occasional drops of rain.
The kitchen appeared more lived in—and less suited to Cristiano—with deep-orange walls, cornflower-blue shutters, and a green tea-colored wood table. A stout woman reached for a tray of hors d’oeuvres on the counter, and it was impossible not to notice the burn scars up and down her arms. She spared me a quick glance before she sidestepped a man in a chef’s hat.
Cristiano gestured around the room rattling off names that went in one ear and out the other. My mind was at capacity for the day. “Fisker is the main chef,” he added.
A blond, skin-and-bones man standing over a large pot nodded at me. “Fish stew?” he asked.
I looked to Cristiano, who asked, “Are you hungry?”
“N-no,” I told Fisker. He didn’t look healthy. Nobody in here did. Where had they come from? “But thank you.”
Cristiano turned to exit but bent to whisper, “Don’t let his gaunt appearance fool you. He grew up a fisherman in Denmark and knows food as well as any world-renowned chef I’ve met.”
Cristiano nodded for me to follow, and we were moving again. Down another hall, past closed doors and small windows. I thought I detected the din of voices and music, but it wasn’t until Cristiano opened one of the doors that a cacophony of singing, hollering, and mariachi overwhelmed me.