Epilogue I

DANIELA

9 months later

Valentina, my maid of honor, is having her hair styled, in the newly rebuilt bride’s parlor at St. Ana’s church. I might be the bride, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s the real star. I can’t help myself from stealing peeks at my smart, gorgeous teenage daughter in the mirror.

Our relationship is on solid footing, now, but seven months ago, when I broke the news that I was her mother, I never thought we’d see this day. The fallout was swift and ugly, and it felt as though the damage was irreparable.

I rehearsed every word I planned to say. Read books about how to break difficult news to teenagers. Talked through every detail with Dr. Lima a hundred times, ran some of it by Antonio, and even Rafael. Still, I couldn’t do it.

But it ate at me. What if she found out from someone else?

Some nights I tossed and turned, until the first light seeped through the shutters. I was terrified our relationship would never be the same once she knew. I was afraid she’d never forgive me, or worse, that she would somehow think less of herself because of the circumstances surrounding her conception.

I couldn’t summon the courage—until one day, at the worst possible moment, in perhaps the worst possible way, while I was exhausted and at my outer limit with teenage moodiness, I broke the news.

I was so ashamed of myself about how it unfolded. I’m still ashamed.

* * *

“You’re not my mother,”Valentina announced for the umpteenth time that day. It was her favorite comeback when she didn’t like some rule or restriction.

It never rolled smoothly off my back, but normally I ignored it. Not that day.

“I am your mother.”

I panicked when the words came flying out, a wave of fear pulling me under while I stood frozen.

“Not my real mother,” she hissed, fists clenched at her side. “My real mother is dead. You’ll never be my real mother.”

The words twirled round and round inside my head, but all my focus was on controlling my shaky voice. There was no turning back now. At least, I couldn’t see a viable retreat.

“I’m your birth mother.”

There must have been something in my tone or in my expression that made her stop and take notice. “What are you talking about?” she stammered.

I don’t know, I wanted to say, or April Fools! Anything to make it all go away.

The confusion was scrawled all over her—in her eyes, her expression, her posture. I knew it would soon turn to anger, again, and maybe to hatred, before there was any hope of things getting better. They might never get better.

“Isabel was your mother. But I’m your mother, too,” I explained, the way Dr. Lima and I had discussed. “You grew in my belly. I gave birth to you.” Despite my efforts to stay calm, the emotion seeped into my voice. “I’ve loved you with all my heart, from the moment you took your first breath.”

Valentina paled as I spoke. “Liar!” she screamed.

The anguish in her voice echoed in my head for weeks. If I close my eyes, I can still hear it.

“I’m sorry. We wanted you to be safe and happy. It might not seem like it, but we did what we believed was best for you. Always.” It seemed little more than a hollow excuse.

“You believed lying was best for me?”

I took a deep breath. “From the moment you were born, you were the light of everyone’s life, especially mine. But I was too young to raise a child, and I didn’t have my mother. Isabel agreed to raise you as her daughter, so that I wouldn’t have to give you to strangers.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, but the wheels are turning.

“How old were you? Twelve?” she eventually asks, in a tone that screams You’re a liar. “Girls don’t have babies at twelve.”

By that point, my soul was flayed wide open. “Not usually.”

“Who’s my father?” she asked so softly, I could barely hear anything but the pain in her voice. The pain of betrayal. My betrayal.

As much as I wanted to say something different, I couldn’t lie—not about that. But I would use the distancing language, that Dr. Lima helped me with, to describe what happened in a way that would shield her a bit—at least for now.

“I got pregnant by Tomas Huntsman. Rafael’s brother.”

“He’s dead,” she said flatly.

I couldn’t tell if it was a relief, or not.

“Did you love him?”

I imagined this as a dagger aimed at her chest, and I took a long breath to tamp down the sob. I shook my head. “No.”

“He was your boyfriend?”

“No.”

The silence wailed as she tried to put the pieces together. It would be a lot for anyone to process, but especially for a budding adolescent who didn’t fully grasp relationships, or sex, or how babies develop. I wanted to go to her. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry, again. I’ll never be able to say it enough. I desperately wanted to do or say something that would ease her pain.

But I remained quiet, and as calm as possible, like Dr. Lima instructed. At least on the outside. Inside, a tempest roared while I waited for her cue.

But it never came.

“I hate you with all my heart,” she cried, before storming out. “You’re a liar, and I’ll always hate you for it.”

I had been prepared for this. I knew full well this could be her reaction. But nothing could have prepared me for the agony of my heart being torn to pieces. Nothing.

“I love you,” I called after her as I clung to the doorjamb. “I always have. And I always will.”

She never turned around.

I ached to go after her, to wrap her in my arms and beg for forgiveness. But I didn’t, because we could only move forward on her terms—at least that’s what the expert advised. Valentina was the child and I had to be the adult, even though I was dying inside.

She didn’t come down to dinner that night, or the next. I had Antonio check on her, and Rafael, and Victor, and even Paula, who I’d rehired. I’m not feeling well, she told them. I’m not hungry.

When I knocked on her door, she pretended to be asleep.

The first night, I let it go. The second night, I went in when she didn’t respond and fussed with her covers before placing a small kiss on her head. “I love you,” I whispered into her hair, before leaving.

She didn’t come out of her room for more than a week. She didn’t shower. I’m not sure she brushed her teeth. We brought trays of food up, and Dr. Lima visited her twice. “You need to have patience,” she told me, with great empathy. “It’s all new for her. She needs time to process it, before she can even begin to deal with the emotions.”

I went to Valentina’s room every night. Every night I kissed her and told her that I loved her. Every night she pretended to be asleep, even the night the lone tear snuck out from the corner of her eye. My heart ached as I watched it trickle down her cheek.

It was ten days before she rejoined the family, but even then, my sweet girl remained on the periphery. She didn’t spare me a glance. Although several times, Antonio caught her studying me when I wasn’t paying attention.

I was hurting, but my agony was nothing compared to hers. Every night, I kept going back to her room. I wanted her to know that even if she never uttered another word to me, I would never stop loving her.

After two weeks, I pulled up a chair beside the bed and told her a story. Not the kind of bedtime story mothers read from a book, but the kind they carry in their hearts.

I talked about the first time I felt her move inside me. I described the magic of her kicking, and how I would lay still for hours, waiting for it to happen again.

The next night, I told her how I often fantasized about her calling me M?e. Not just when I was a girl, but even when I became a woman.

The night after that, I told her how grateful I was that Isabel agreed to raise her, so I could see her every day. I was there for everything. Every cough and sniffle. Every joyous moment. Her first word. The first time she pulled herself up. Her first wobbly step. Her first haircut. And when she lost her first tooth. Every precious moment was etched into my heart.

It was more than three weeks, when after I kissed her cheek and turned to leave, she asked, “Did it hurt to have a baby?”

My heart clenched tight, and I lowered myself to the edge of a nearby chair.

“Yes. But Isabel was with me, and that made it easier.” I answered her question, but didn’t give her more information than she asked for. That’s what Dr. Lima, and everything I read, advised.

It was a yeoman’s task to talk about harrowing events, that happened to me, using a detached clinical approach. But I wanted to protect my baby as much as possible, and I did my very best, even when it felt like I was feeling my way through the dark.

“Did I come out of your vagina or did they have to cut me out?” she asked the following night.

“My vagina. You came early, and you were very small. I didn’t have to push for long. You wanted to come out.”

I was sure she was thinking about herself, having a baby. It had to be frightening. That’s all she asked that night, but I sat there until she fell asleep.

“Did he rape you, Lala?” she whispered into the softly lit room, the following night.

Another dagger aimed at my little girl.I clung to the arms of the chair as I spoke. “He forced me to have sex with him,” I explained, trying to keep as much of the emotion as I could out of my voice. One day, when she was older, we could have a different conversation, but right then, I didn’t want to burden her with my pain.

“Were you scared?”

“Yes. I was scared.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes. It hurt.”

I didn’t tell her the rest. About my mother. Or Antonio’s father. None of it. Maybe one day I’d tell her. But it wasn’t germane to anything she was worried about now.

“Did he know about me?” she asked the following evening.

“Not at first. I was afraid he’d try to take you away if he knew. And I didn’t think he would be a good father for you. That’s why we left Porto after my father died.”

“Why didn’t you tell Antonio? He would have protected you.”

He would have protected both of us, and Isabel too.In hindsight, I should have told him. But at the time, there was no way to know.

“I could have told Antonio. But I didn’t know him very well, and I couldn’t take the risk.”

It was more than a month before she said a single word to me outside our evening chats, where we would talk while she was in bed with her back toward me.

Antonio was a rock during the entire time. For me, and for her. As was Rafael.

Although Antonio was great with her, he struggled with his own emotions, not only about the rape and his family’s culpability, but about me. I tried to shield most of my despair from him, but he knew. He always knows.

While I didn’t know Rafael’s inner struggles, he was there for her one hundred percent, and once she came out of her room, she sought him out regularly. I was so grateful she had him.

Even though Valentina felt we’d all lied to her, I was the one held accountable—as I should have been. Dr. Lima told me that she compartmentalized each of us in our roles. Antonio was the knight in shining armor, who would do battle with the monsters in the outside world. Rafael was her hip friend and closest confidant, who would do anything for her. I was the scapegoat. The place where she unloaded all her anger and fear.

“It’s a place of honor,” Dr. Lima explained, “and it’s also what gives me great confidence that, in time, you’ll have your little girl back. She feels safe enough to dump all over you, anytime, anywhere, knowing that no matter how badly she behaves, she won’t push you away. You’ll always love her.”

When things got really bad, I would pacify myself with that knowledge, praying that the good doctor was right.

One afternoon when I went to the kitchen, Antonio and Valentina were already there.

“Sometimes we lie to protect people we love,” Antonio explained—while I stood outside the kitchen, with my back braced against the wall, eavesdropping. “Sometimes they lie to protect us.”

“You hate lying,” she replied.

“I do. But this wasn’t a lie anyone told to protect themselves, or to curry favor. This was a lie to protect a little girl they loved. I’m sure you’re hurt and confused. And many other things that I can’t pretend to know. But this is complicated.”

“I feel like my whole life has been a lie. Everyone I loved lied to me.”

I had taken lots of blows by then, and a part of me was numb, but the vulnerability in her voice sliced open a new wound.

“You can choose to believe that,” Antonio replied. “And you can choose to never forgive Daniela for being part of that lie. Or you can believe, as I believe, that for your whole life, you’ve been surrounded by people who loved you dearly. You had two mothers. Both who made sacrifices. Both who gave everything they had to protect you. Not many people are so lucky.”

She didn’t respond.

“The choice is yours, Valentina. One choice might feel too hard right now, but ultimately it will lead to happiness. The other is bitter, and while it seems easier right now, I bet inside, it doesn’t feel good. And in the long run, it will lead to loneliness. I’m sure you’re already feeling it. You’re a smart girl. I have every confidence you’ll choose wisely.”

I prayed, every day, that she would choose me.

On Mother’s Day, almost three months after I told Valentina the truth, my husband gave me a bracelet with a heart-shaped gold locket. On one side, there was a picture of Valentina, Lydia, and me taken from the harvest celebration before Lydia died. On the other, there was a copy of the photograph from my father’s desk. The one of my mother and me, wearing a purple tutu.

“You are a wonderful mother,” he assured me as I sobbed in his arms. “Selfless and giving. There’s no child on this earth who has a better mother. Valentina knows it. That’s why it’s becoming so hard for her to stay angry with you.”

Antonio and Rafael spent the day pampering me, but Valentina avoided me like the plague.

That night when I went up to bed, there was a beautifully wrapped gift and a handmade card on my pillow.

Dear Mom Lala,

I know this gift is babyish, but I didn’t get you a Mother’s Day present. I’ve been thinking about the presents I made for my Mom Isabel for Mother’s Day. I always gave her the gift I made at school, and all the Mother’s Day kisses. It must have hurt your feelings. It makes me sad to think about. I’m sorry. I don’t remember all the presents, but I remember making a handprint in kindergarten. I want you to have one, too.

Love,

Valentina

PS. Next year I’ll get you a real present.

I cried and cried, before I made my way to her room. She pretended to be asleep, but I knew we’d turned a corner.

* * *

Paula,along with a few other women, are still fussing over me in the bride’s parlor. Hair, makeup, and now the princesa dress, with yards and yards of silk tulle fit for royalty. The veil, embroidered with tiny silk roses, will come later.

I’m not sure any bride needs this kind of extravagance, especially me, but I’ve reveled in every moment of the fairy tale. Every single one. My only regret is that my parents, Isabel, and Lydia aren’t here to celebrate with us.

There’s a knock that startles me. As Paula goes to the door, my eyes are glued there. It’s hard not to think about what happened the last time we got married.

I’m sure there are those who wonder why I chose to be married here, again, in a place that holds so many bad memories, and perhaps danger. I’m not a coward, but I’m not a fool, either.

Duarte is stationed just outside the door, and security is tight, even by Antonio’s tough standards, and with Abel and Tomas dead, and the Russians no longer a threat, our world is much safer.

Of course, there are the run-of-the-mill troublemakers to be mindful of, those who envy us and are always looking to stir trouble, and other more serious enemies, too. But the most dangerous, with their deep-rooted grievances, are somewhere in hell from where there is no escape.

“Wow.” Rafael whistles from the doorway. “Wait until Antonio sees you. Even an old man like him—”

He glances at Valentina.

“Will need a foot rub,” I tease.

He throws his head back and laughs. Although he still has the heart of a teenage boy, he’s filling out in ways that make him look very much like a man. Rafael is smart, and he understands human nature better than anyone I’ve ever met. Without his quick thinking, Antonio and I might not have survived Abel’s devious plan.

“Valentina, when you’re done, I need your help in the sanctuary. Nothing major,” he assures me with an easy smile.

I don’t even ask what he’s up to. I’m sure it involves some young woman, and he needs a wingman, or in this case, a wingwoman.

“Don’t worry, M?e,” my daughter quips, placing her bouquet on the dressing table near mine. “I’m sure it’s nothing important.”

“Really?” Rafael says to his niece, who’s grinning from ear to ear. “That’s how it’s going to be?”

“We still have plenty of time before the ceremony starts,” I assure her. “Keep him out of trouble, please.”

As they leave with their heads together, I’m swamped with emotion. Don’t worry, M?e. I’ll never tire of hearing her call me M?e.

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of epic proportion, and it’s just the beginning. As excited as I am about marrying—remarrying—Antonio, I’m also reeling from everything that needs to be done for the harvest.

I convinced the groom we should wait to get married until right before the harvest, when the grapes are almost, almost, at peak. What was I thinking?

It’s not only impossible to gauge when the fruit will be ripe and fragrant, but it’s insanely busy at this time of year for him—for all of us, really. But Antonio wanted this to be the wedding of my dreams, and he agreed, without batting an eyelash.

Following the ceremony, we’re hosting a luncheon for all our guests, under a tent in our backyard. But this evening, under the stars, in my mother’s vineyards at Quinta Rosa do Vale, with the scent of ripe grapes perfuming the air, we’re celebrating with our family, and our friends, who are like family. It will be a small celebration, the kind my parents would have planned for their only daughter. I miss them, always, but today, especially.

Our wedding will usher in the harvest, and all that follows. Relationships are like the vines, nurtured and fed over the long winter, so that they can root deep, and produce luscious fruit not just for a season, but for a lifetime.

Today is our harvest, when we reap the hard work we’ve put into cultivating a relationship that works for us. But just as the story isn’t over when the grapes are cut from the vine, ours too, is just beginning.

“You look stunning,”Paula gushes.

With lots of encouragement, she’s emerging from her shell and becoming a fabulous personal assistant. “I loved the dress you wore the first time,” she continues, “but this one is even more beautiful on you. You’re radiating happiness.”

Paula has the good graces not to say, Unlike last time. She was in the church on that fateful day eighteen months ago. Like me, she was blessed to be out of the room when the deadly explosion leveled the bride’s parlor and nearly destroyed the adjacent chapel. It hurts my heart to think about the senseless death and destruction.

This morning when we arrived, she and I went into the sanctuary and lit a candle for each of the lives lost. I think of them often, especially Nelia and Pinto.

But even before the explosion, there was no joy in the bride’s parlor that day. I was a pawn, forced to fulfill the betrothal contract my father and Antonio sealed in blood. Did he drag me kicking and screaming to the altar for all to witness? No. But not all chains used to bind a young bride are visible.

This time I’m here of my own accord. My heart is free to love who I choose. The difference is staggering.

“Let me adjust the bustle so that you can move around a little more easily,” Beatriz, the young woman who designed my wedding dress, explains. “We’ll lower the train when you get to the sanctuary so it doesn’t drag all over the floor and get dirty before the ceremony.”

I’m wearing a white dress today—not cream, or ivory, or any of the other colors that Clara, the first dress designer I consulted, deigned appropriate for a second marriage, or in this case, a second wedding.

Clara is very talented and much sought after. She designs wedding dresses for all sorts of celebrities and political types. She’s also very traditional.

Although tradition is important, especially here in Porto, it’s equally as important to know the difference between traditions that move us forward and those that hold us back.

“White is a symbol of purity,” Clara told me when I met with her. “Even though we know that few brides are chaste, unless there’s a baby bump,” she raised her brow, “or a baby, we can look the other way. But a white dress is not appropriate for a second marriage. The bride is no longer pure, and everyone knows it. You don’t want to give the gossips any reason to talk.”

There was something about the way she talked about purity that made me feel unclean. My insides began to tremble, and for a fleeting moment, I was nothing more than a woman who had been raped as a child. Dirty.Damaged.

Clara didn’t actually say it, and of course she didn’t know, but she made me feel like less, and I’m sure I wasn’t the first.

As I composed myself, I remembered something Lydia said to me while we had tea at Samantha’s. “I’m counting on you, my dear, to help Antonio grow into the good man that I know is inside. He has the ability to put an end to some of the old ways that are harmful. A lot rides on your success. I have great faith in you.”

I glanced at Clara. Antonio wasn’t the only one who needed to grow, and he wasn’t the only person with the power to put an end to the old harmful ways. I have a voice, too.

“If someone like me, who’s virtually untouchable, can’t wear what she likes, where does that leave other women?”

“It’s a wedding,” she chided. “Not a political statement. You want your guests to feel comfortable.”

It might seem like such a small hill to die on, but progress has to begin somewhere. And even more, I wouldn’t make myself small so others felt comfortable with their archaic beliefs.

I sat up tall and flashed her a small forced smile. “It’s my responsibility to provide my guests good food and drink, lively music, and a safe venue. It’s not my responsibility to make them comfortable with the status of my purity. It’s none of their concern, and shame on them for even thinking about it.”

Clara swallowed hard. It was probably another lesson she’d like to teach me. “Of course,” she replied with a brittle smile.

In the end, I chose Beatriz, a lesser known designer, to create my wedding dress. I’m thrilled that it’s already given her business a boost.

There’s a rap on the door, and Antonio strolls in without waiting to be invited.

“Ladies,” the groom, who shouldn’t be here, says to Paula, Beatriz, and the stylist, with their jaws on the floor, “I need a moment with the bride. Someone will let you know when I’m finished.” In other words, Don’t come back until I give you permission.

He’s handsome, devilishly handsome, but insufferable.

* * *

“You’re not supposedto see the bride until she walks up the aisle,” I warn, after Paula closes the door behind them.

“I’m too impatient for that. I wanted us to be alone, when I first saw you in your dress. It was a good decision,” he adds, his voice like coarse gravel.

“Do you like it?” I know from his reaction he does, but I’m a little nervous, and I want to hear him say it.

“It’s beautiful. You make it beautiful.”

He prowls closer and kisses me roughly. I know exactly where this is going, and we really shouldn’t—although the longer we kiss, the more tempted I become.

“Antonio, we can’t do this here.”

“We’re already married,” he replies, running his tongue along the shell of my ear.

“We’re in a church.”

He lifts his head. “Technically, this isn’t the church. So don’t act like I’m going to lay you over the altar and fuck you until you scream. That’s for another time,” he murmurs.

Good Lord.

“I’m pretty sure God considers this part of the church. Having sex in a church is blasphemous.”

“We’re married. God wants us to fuck. It’s our duty to make more Catholics. I remember that from catechism.”

I laugh. “Catechism? You remember catechism?”

“Only the part about God wanting married people to fuck. That left a lasting impression on me.”

I smooth the lapels of his tux, to distract him. “You look so handsome.”

“Don’t deny me. I want you. You want me, too. I’ll be careful not to ruin your dress. Let’s take it off,” he adds, turning me around.

I’ll be careful not to ruin your dress. Right. Famous last words.

I have a quick decision to make. Do I give in to the irresistible temptation that is my husband, or use common sense?

When his mouth finds my throat, I whimper, and my decision is made. Not that it was ever really in doubt.

“Taking off the dress was supposed to be foreplay for tonight.”

“I’m practicing,” he mutters, fumbling with the tiny pearl buttons.

“What if someone comes in?” Or more importantly, how am I ever going to get back in this dress without having to explain to Beatriz that we were…making Catholics.

“Duarte would never let that happen. Fuck this,” he mumbles, impatiently. “Too many damn buttons. I want to tear them off.”

“Don’t you dare!”

He presses his lips to my forehead. “Don’t worry,” he assures me, as he lifts the layers of tulle and silk until they’re bunched around my thighs.

“Stockings and a lace garter,” he mutters, stepping back to admire the lacy white lingerie and silk stockings.

The outline of his hard cock pressed against his trouser zipper makes my mouth water.

“You are a sight to behold, Princesa. My dick aches for you,” he murmurs, turning me so we’re both facing the dressing table mirror.

His eyes are black, and my cheeks flushed as we gaze at each other in the mirror. “I need to taste you. More than I’ve ever needed anything.”

Unbridled lust, woven through the fierce love in his face, is my undoing. As nervous as I am about him tearing my dress, I need him to taste me, too.

“Is your pretty pussy tingling with anticipation?”

My dark prince has a dirty, dirty mouth, and if my pussy wasn’t already aflutter, it would be now.

Antonio lowers himself to his haunches, taking my panties with him, while I gather the silk and tulle billows and hike them higher, trying not to wrinkle the delicate fabric.

He spreads my cheeks, and I shiver as his tongue glides down my crack, to my pussy. His strong hands hold my legs steady, and he licks my clit, until I’m bucking into his face. I whimper as his whiskers rasp against the sensitive flesh.

“You’re divine. I think we’ll skip the ceremony, so I can spend the day right here, with my mouth on your cunt.” He slides two fingers inside me and groans.

I can’t take any more. “Antonio,” I beg shamelessly, teetering in my wedding heels and trying not to make too much noise. “Let me come.”

“It’s your day,” he murmurs, rising behind me, his long fingers twisting inside my pussy. “Anything for the lovely bride.”

I hear the purr of his zipper, as he inches me toward the dressing table, for extra support. He cups a hand over my mouth, and fills me with his thick cock.

I whimper and moan, biting into his fingers to strangle the cries.

“You feel so goddamn good,” he grunts, as he fucks me with long, delicious strokes, each powerful thrust filling my grateful pussy, until I’m writhing against him, my thighs quivering.

“Are you going to scream when you come for me, Princesa? Are you going to squirt all over your white lace panties? Did you bring an extra pair, or are our guests going to be treated to the scent of your pleasure all day?”

I’m panting, seconds away from orgasm. I clutch the edge of the dressing table and tip my head up.

He’s watching me in the mirror. His eyes are heavy and glazed.

My belly tightens, and I gasp and shudder, as his fingers swirl over my clit, faster and harder, until my walls clench around his cock, squeezing the steely shaft as I come apart.

“Good girl. Such a good girl,” he mutters, his thrusts deep and erratic, until his body jerks, and he comes with a low, savage grunt.

Antonio rests his forehead on the back of my head for a long moment while we catch our breath.

“Don’t move,” he whispers, grabbing a handful of tissues from the box on the dressing table before he slides out of me. After he cleans me, and then himself, he tosses the tissues into the trash.

I’m still too sticky and wet to walk up the aisle, in a church, no less. I reach for more tissues, but before I can dab off the residue, he swats my hand away and wipes the remaining evidence from my pussy with a pressed, monogrammed handkerchief. Not that different from the one he offered Valentina when she cried at the funeral. The handkerchief he carries for emergencies.

When he’s done, he folds it neatly and brings it to his nose, before slipping it into his back pocket.

“That’s disgusting.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree. Besides, I like disgusting,” my groom murmurs, with a wicked leer. “The dirtier, the better.”

* * *

I watchfrom just outside the ornate sanctuary, as Valentina walks up the aisle. Head high, shoulders back. She’s growing into the young woman I hoped she’d become. Isabel, my mother, Lydia—and Vera—would be proud of her, too.

Isabel and I tried our best to make sure Valentina had a real childhood. The kind every girl deserves, although she’s had to grow up fast in the last eighteen months.

“It’s not healthy to miss too many milestones, or to be isolated from friends for long periods,” Dr. Lima once explained. “It’s hard to be a well-adjusted adult, if you don’t fully experience childhood.”

She might have been talking about me.

I’m supposed to be broken. Or at the very least, my pieces, the ones we could find, should be glued together with some type of adhesive that doesn’t adhere all that well. It’s been studied extensively by experts, and given the highest stamp of approval: Survivors of sexual assault are irreparably broken, with jagged edges and unsightly crevices. Damaged. You could cut yourself, polite society whispers, if you get too close.

It’s funny, though. I only feel broken when someone remarks that women like me should be broken. The rest of the time, I just go on with my life, like everyone else. Yes, being raped at twelve and forced to have a child is—beyond traumatic. I still have nightmares about it. Nightmares that feel incredibly real. Once or twice a month, I wake up gasping, in a cold sweat. And the smell of wildflowers in a meadow can send me into a panic that takes days to fully recover from.

But why do I have to be the one who’s broken? Why can’t I just be considered a whole, well-functioning human who has an occasional blip? It’s the monsters who assaulted me—and my mother—who are broken. They’re the ones who are less than human. Disfigured. Damaged. Despicable. Not me.

The wedding march begins, and I step into the storied sanctuary, like so many brides have before me. My groom is at the altar with Lucas, Cristiano, and Rafael.

The moment he spots me, he steps into the aisle and waits for me, like a beacon. It’s not the timing we rehearsed, but Antonio marches to his own drummer. Always.

As I continue up the long aisle, the church could be brimming with congregants or it could be empty. I don’t know, because I have eyes only for him.

When I reach the halfway point, Antonio pulls out the handkerchief from his back pocket and brings it to his nose for a long moment, before putting it away. A deep flush warms my skin, as I meet his burning gaze.

My dark prince, handsome and brave, and filthy to the core. The leader the valley requires to thrive. The man our family needs to flourish. My love, who, every day, reinforces my belief that I’m not broken. That I’m a strong, capable woman. Not a victim, but a survivor.