I fisted my hands in my lap to hide my shaking fingers and bit my lip to stop it from trembling.
I wouldn’t cry again. Not after Mariana’s warning not to ruin my mascara.
But more than that, I feared the boy who sat across the table from me.
Stop crying.
I didn’t want to anger him with my tears.
Unable to help myself, I peeked up at him, primal imperatives telling me to assess the threat he posed.
His square jaw was tight, and his green eyes flared when my gaze met his. His attention fixed me in place, and I found that I couldn’t look away as his eyes roved over my painted face before flicking down my body.
I squirmed in my seat, and his gaze immediately returned to my face. His full lips thinned to a harsh slash as he scowled at me.
I was finally able to break the connection when a man appeared at Vicente’s side. He took one of the dishes from the table and uncovered it before serving Vicente a heaping portion of scrambled eggs, followed by fat sausages.
Vicente didn’t so much as glance at him or thank him. Instead, he studied me, his eyes narrowed. At first, I thought the weight of his stare was one of disapproval because of my tardiness. After a few moments of his eyes lingering on my body, his head canting to the side, I realized he was studying me with a different intent.
My stomach twisted. I didn’t understand why the men wouldn’t stop looking at me. All I knew was it made me feel queasy.
I stared at the table again, watching the man serve everyone’s breakfast out of the corner of my eye. When he filled my plate, I nearly gagged at the rich scent of salted sausage. It wouldn’t be possible for me to eat when nausea curled in my gut.
I glanced over at Mariana, trying to take my cues from her behavior. So far, she was the only person at this table who’d treated me with anything close to kindness. Despite my resentment of the way she’d styled my hair and dressed me up like a doll, I couldn’t help seeking some sort of comfort from the older woman.
As she cut into her sausage, I noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding band. A huge emerald adorned her finger, but nothing more. She clearly wasn’t Vicente’s wife, but she lived in his house and sat at his table.
I knew enough from my father’s lifestyle to recognize that Mariana was Vicente’s mistress. She was nothing more to him than a pretty companion.
Personally, I’d never really understood the point of mistresses. What purpose did they serve, other than lazing about the estate and looking beautiful? I did know that sometimes they got pregnant, but I didn’t know how that happened. I’d seen my father kissing the women he kept around the house, just like the couples kissed in the telenovelas I watched. Those people were in love, whereas I’d never seen my father express affection for his mistresses.
I’d never really thought about these things before, but now, it seemed of vital importance. Mariana was Vicente’s mistress, and she’d made me up to look like her. What did that mean for me?
A horrible vision of Vicente’s thin lips pressed against my mouth made my stomach lurch. Over the last year, I’d become curious about kissing, about the love I saw expressed in my beloved TV shows.
The thought of sharing a kiss with the old man at the head of the table made me want to vomit.
“Eat your fucking food.” I jolted at the snapped words, my gaze jumping to the angry boy who sat across from me. He glowered at me, his eyes flicking from my face to my untouched plate. Everyone else was finishing their breakfast, but I’d sat frozen as disgusting thoughts floated through my brain.
“Language, Adrián,” Vicente drawled.
Suddenly, Hugo cuffed the boy hard on the back of his head. The boy—Adrián—winced, his eyes narrowing on me, as though it was my fault he’d been struck.
Mariana sighed. “If you don’t eat now, you won’t get anything until lunch,” she warned me.
I shook my head, staring at the food cooling on my plate. “I can’t,” I said softly. “I don’t feel good.”
A moment of silence passed, and I felt everyone’s eyes on me, pricking at my skin.
“She is young,” Vicente finally said.
“Does it matter?” Hugo replied, a slight rasp to his tone. “Cristian was right. She looks like a woman.”
“I’m not interested in deflowering a child,” Vicente said coldly. “She can join Adrián in his studies until she’s older.”
“What?” Adrián burst out. “I don’t want her around. I’m not going to be her fucking babysitter.”
I heard the dull thud when Hugo struck him again for his filthy language, but I couldn’t bring myself to look up at any of them. They were discussing my fate like I wasn’t even a person. Like I had no free will.