"This is about the food, isn't it?" She winces. "Oh, please have mercy. I beg of you."
"Mercy?" I spit the word from my lips with such vehemence she begins to shake. "What mercy should there be for a woman who can't perform the most basic task of feeding my goddamn wife!"
Tears begin to cascade over her cheeks as she shakes her head in denial. "But it was your order, sir! And I know I fed her against your wishes, but she was feeling faint, and I simply could not..."
I draw in a sharp breath and try to calm myself.
"Master, please," Antonia sobs. "I did not mean to offend."
I turn away from her and drag a hand over my face. I hate it when she calls me that. Antonia has known me since I was a boy, and truly, it does not please me to see the old woman cry. She showed me kindness when so many others did not. She cleaned my wounds and kept me fed and never once treated me to a repulsive glance, even at my worst.
In my gut, I know this was not her doing. She is not capable of such betrayal. And for a moment, I wish I could express that sentiment to her. But the dynamic has changed so much since I returned from the hospital. My unpredictable moods and harsh demands have left the staff scurrying around the mansion like church mice, trying their best to remain unseen and unheard. They do not know what to make of the cold, reclusive man who walked out of the flames that night. And I am certain they only see me as the monster I am now.
"Tell me why my wife was only fed once today." I turn back to her slowly, watching Antonia dab her eyes with the sheet.
She takes a shuddering breath and collects herself with a nod. "Mercedes came to me with the instructions this morning," she says softly. "She told me they were your orders. I was only doing as I was told, sir."
Mercedes.
Darkness creeps into the edges of my vision as I give her a stiff nod. "Let me be clear, Antonia. My wife's health is a priority until I say otherwise. That means any orders pertaining to her will only come directly from me. She will eat when she is hungry, and should she have any other needs, I trust you will meet them accordingly."
Relief makes her shoulders sag. "Yes, master."
I grimace at her and shake my head. "And from now on, call me Santiago, for God's sakes. You have known me since I was in diapers."
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "But, sir, what if the other staff hears me address you as such? It would not be proper."
"To hell with that custom." I wave my hand flippantly. "I am not my father, and you can inform them you have my permission if you must. I don't want to hear another word on the subject."
"Yes, sir." A small, kind smile crosses her lips. "If I may?"
I tilt my head to examine her. "Yes?"
"Mrs. De La Rosa is very beautiful. You have done well for yourself."
I feel my lips tilting at the corners before I dip my head curtly. "Thank you, Antonia. Now, please, attend to her."
Despite Mercedes’s assurance of finding useful employment for her mind this evening, I find her on the computer in the library, stretching the limits of her credit card with luxury clothing.
When she hears me approaching, she nearly knocks the chair back in her haste to get up and greet me. She can tell by the look in my eye that I am not pleased.
"Santiago." She pleads with me as I stalk toward her.
I wrap my fingers around her neck, applying enough pressure to make her sputter. "What the fuck do you think you’re doing?"
"I'm looking after our best interests," she chokes out. "You are letting her get to you already. Giving her that suite. The dress. The ring. This manor. She should be locked in a basement with nothing more than the shame of her family name to keep her warm."
I shove her away with a snarl. "How easily you forget your place."
"My place is beside you, as your equal." She rubs at her throat. "We are De La Rosas. Our blood is stronger than any other. That is why you survived, Santi. So you could lead. And I am here to help you."
"You are here to get in my way."
I pace the length of the floor, conflicted.
Perhaps Mercedes is right. I am letting Ivy get to me. I can see how she might draw such a conclusion, given the luxuries bestowed upon my wife already. But I have a plan, and I trust that will not alter. It is not for my sister to question me, and I must make that clear to her now.
"Betray me again, and you will not like the consequences," I say. "For now, you can accept your punishment graciously."
"Punishment?" She stares at me incredulously.
I seize her Gucci wallet and cell phone from the computer desk and pocket them.
She lunges for me, an expression of horror on her face. "No! You can't do this to me."
"You can have them back when you've shown some contrition for a change. Perhaps it will do you good."
Her jaw sets, and already I can see her plotting her revenge.
"Don't do anything stupid, Mercedes," I warn her menacingly. "You won't like the results if you test my patience further."
19
Santiago
Ivy is finishing up the light meal Antonia provided her when I return to her room. A fresh set of candles burns at her bedside, and it's brighter than the last time I saw her.
The gash on her head looks worse than before, and it bothers me more than I’d like.
"Tell me about the cut." I glance down at her. “How did it happen?”
She wipes her hands with a napkin and then folds it over the tray. Her eyes are cast down, and I can tell she's still trying to keep her secrets. But I will not allow it, and she should already be aware of this.
"Ivy." My voice is a warning, but my fingers are soft as they graze the back of her neck.
"I stumbled and fell."
Almost immediately, I contribute this to the faintness Antonia mentioned earlier. But then I remember the bruises on her body. And her reluctance to answer for them as well. She blamed them on the doctor, another matter I have yet to contend with. Though I suspect there is more to it than that.
"Why did you stumble and fall?"
She toys with the hem of the black silk nightgown I purchased for her. "Because I do that sometimes."
In the soft light, she looks more vulnerable than I've ever seen her. Perhaps this is the reason I find myself tilting her face up, so I can study that emotion and try to understand it.
"You can have no secrets from me." I pet her face beneath my palm, and she closes her eyes with a soft shudder. "We can do this the hard way or the easy way. The choice is yours."
"I have vestibular dysfunction," she admits reluctantly. "Sometimes, I get dizzy. Blurry vision. It can affect my balance. It’s a defect I can’t control."
I consider her words carefully, focusing on the term defect she chose with obvious disdain. She believes she is defective. Her eye, and now this. It brings me a strange sense of satisfaction to know this about her. The intimacy of her secret and the realization she is ashamed of it are both a balm to my own scars. But they shouldn't be.
My fingers fall away, and she peeks up at me.