Thirty

"It's a rule."

"I truly don't care."

"Valeria."

"Sebastian."

He clenches his jaw, squaring his features. "Of course. You break every rule you can."

Fact.

I exhale slowly and tap my foot on the marble floor of the foyer. "Are you going to let me into my own father's house, or are you seriously going to die on this hill?"

"Die," Sebastian confirms—and yeah, that would be great, actually. But I can be the bigger person, as usual.

Annoyed, I drop my phone into the gigantic crystal bowl my father puts out at parties to encourage people to be "present" (read: focused on him and him alone). Only a handful of guests ever leaves their phones in it, but Sebastian always makes sure I'm in that small minority.

Fucking narc.

"No boyfriend?" he goes on, eyeing me up and down, lingering a bit too long on my tits.

"No, he's right here," I answer, gesturing to the open space next to me before rolling my eyes. "What do you think? Asshole."

Immediately, Sebastian's eyes widen. "If Vicente heard you—"

"I hope he does," I snap. "He hates when people ask inane questions."

Sebastian takes a menacing step forward, trying to look tough in his party suit. He's never been good at it, but that hasn't stopped him from trying. "If you think I'm going to—"

"Valeria, you're late."

The sound of my father's voice makes me tense up, and all that bravado flies out the open doorway behind me and into the night. The tendency to wilt in his presence is engrained in me, as much as his blood and his chromosomes.

When I face him, I find his dark eyes narrowed, but only slightly—enough for me to know he's upset, but not enough for anyone else to realize it. I swallow hard, wishing I had anything—literally anything—to use against him, but I don't.

Powerlessness is utterly sickening.

"The photographer has a setup in mind for us," he mentions, beckoning me towards him with a flick of his hand. If my stomach weren't already tight, it would collapse into itself from self-loathing as I walk over and kiss his cheek—the way he expects. The way he demands.

Music is blaring, lively and familiar, Mexican standards with an elegant twist. I follow my father through the maze of party guests, a veritable who's-who of Mexican society in the DMV area, until we reach the living room. The setup in mind is, apparently, my father's marble fireplace—elaborately decorated with red and white flowers in honor of the flag

We fall into the pose easily: Him facing the photographer and me at his side, angled—an accessory. He smiles. "You were supposed to bring that boyfriend," he mentions between pictures. "I was clear."

"He was busy," I answer, smiling too—grimacing, really, but nobody would know except me…and Lander, likely.

"Has he already ended things with you?" He glances in my direction, not hiding his glee at the notion. "Did he realize you'll drag him down with your depravity?"

There are so many responses I want to give, but I can't. My father isn't sober, but isn't quite drunk—and that's a precarious state. When he's sober, he's snide, and when he's drunk, he ignores me, but like this? He's the abominable love child of malice meets machismo.

"Or did he talk some sense into you?" he continues, for once ignoring the flash of the professional camera to stare down his nose at me. "Did he convince you to stop that vile hobby?"

It's a bizarre thing, frankly, that anyone who looks at these pictures will see a powerful father and his quiet, beautiful daughter—everything an impressive Mexican family should be. In reality, we're liars.

I have a newfound disgust for lying.

"No," I reply, stepping closer to my father and hissing into his ear. "I'm still a whore."

Even though he's never refrained from using the word on me, he abhors the sound. But more profoundly, he hates the sound of me defying him.

He squeezes my shoulder so tightly, I wince. "Did you come here to piss me off?" he demands, glaring—and yet still smiling for the camera.

"I came here because you made me."

He inhales through his nostrils. "Remember your place, Valeria. Remember the consequences of forgetting your place."

I look up at him. We look similar, much to his chagrin, I bet. He used to be so prideful about my appearance. He'd gush to anyone who'd listen about how delicate I was or some shit. It pains me now to reflect on how much of Aurora was a manifestation of the toxicity he engrained in me.

"The consequences," I parrot. "One little snide comment is enough for you to pull the trigger?"

His glare tells me everything—Try me and find out, hija. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but let's not forget your reality. You piss me off, you lose everything." He straightens his spine. "Now smile and make sure our guests have drinks." He bobs his head at Sr. Lozano, a wealthy business owner on the other side of the room. "His wine is low. Handle it." He all but shoves me away.

I follow the instruction because it's an escape from my father's grasp, literally and figuratively. The bartender gives me a bottle of the evening's red, and I circulate through the party, smiling, schmoozing, and trying to ignore the burn of my father's glare as I make the rounds.

The instincts, the muscle memory—they're these traitorous, dissociative parts of my body. The wine bottle in my hand is like a flipped switch. My hands remember the specific way to rotate the bottle, the precise twist when ending a pour, how to dab at the mouth with a napkin after each glass I serve. Sometimes the guests thank me, but most don't. I'm a perfect daughter; I'm expected to do this.

Sebastian saunters over, eyeing the bottle and loving this too much. "You'll hear about this dress later," he warns.

Glancing down, I smooth the fabric. It's barely even form-fitting.

"Why can't you respect yourself?" he goes on, picking up a little shrimp on a toothpick from his cocktail plate and shoving it in his mouth. I haven't eaten anything and he knows it; he chews his shrimp with gusto.

"It's funny," I say, even though nothing about this scenario is amusing in the slightest. "I make more money than you, am objectively better looking—not that it really matters, and I'm a nice person. And yet somehow, you still believe you're good enough for me."

His eyes shrink to slivers and he drops his toothpick onto the plate. He glances to the side, maybe to see if anyone heard me. His gaze finds my father across the room. He's in a raucous conversation, talking too loud, but he's watching us; he always is. Sebastian leans in. "Take this," he orders, "and put together another plate for me."

I glance down at the half-eaten appetizers and prickles of anger spread over my skin. The bitten-off shrimp tails lay discarded in the remnants of a mushroom cap filled with something white and gloopy, sprinkled with herbs. Sebastian's balled-up red cocktail napkin sits in the center, used. Disgusting.

He just handed me a plate of trash.

When I look up at him, there's a note of challenge in the upturned corners of his lips, and all I can think about is how Lander and I have eaten a few dozen meals together at this point, and not once has he ever allowed me to clear his plate—let alone my own.

When I shove Sebastian's plate back at him, I know my father sees. I know I'll hear about it again soon.

"Get your own fucking mushroom caps," I snap before I slam the wine bottle down on the nearest end table and escape the living room.

There's a powder room down the hallway that's miraculously unoccupied. Behind the locked door, in the small, quiet space, I face the mirror and take in my reflection, willing the anger expanding and growing beneath my skin to quell.

I take stock of the woman staring at me. Her hair is dark, styled to perfection. Her dress is modest—although not modest enough, apparently. She's petite and doesn't take up too much space. There's an errant drop of red wine dried on the pad of her thumb and a reddened patch of skin on her ankle where a blister might form from rushing around in heels all night while serving guests. She looks like a perfect Mexican daughter.

But her heart is racing and her hands tingle with the urge to lash out at something—anything. Some nights, she gets drunk for no reason other than why the fuck not? Her muscles are small, but hard from Muay Thai. She honestly hates cooking—has never gotten the hang of it, and doing dishes makes her want to throw out all her plates and buy new ones. Her pussy is hairless, camera-ready. And nestled deep in her body, in her most intimate hole, is a plug that she allowed a man to insert into her—and if he hadn't offered, she would have asked.

Because the woman in this mirror is deep and layered, capable of pain and anger and so much more than housework and deference. She's capable of fighting. Of fucking.

She deserves better than this. And tonight, one thing has become crystal clear: She needs to find a way out—for good.