The next morning after settling in, I eat a plate of torrijas on the balcony of my room followed by a well-needed nap. I'm invited by a group of girls at the villa to go shopping in the city. Some of them are Quintanillas—Salvador's daughters or nieces that are the epitome of Colombian beauty with their long black hair and golden skin. The others in the groups are friends or girlfriends of the male attendees, and of course, Esmeralda—Salvador's wife.
I shower and decide on my outfit for the day—baby-blue sundress with comfortable sandals. As I get dressed, I'm tempted to check my phone, but talk myself out of the action.
"This is your time to relax," I remind myself while putting on my makeup. "Time to relax, and shop, and eat delicious
** Day five in Barcelona and Alejandro and I haven't spoken since "that night" outside of my bedroom. It isn't animosity, but merely me being cautious on how I approach him. He knows what I'm doing and has decided to play along. Whenever I would go out into the courtyard to read, I would sometimes see him there talking on the phone. He would stop his conversation and just smile and wave at me. Not a nice smile and wave, but the "keep playing this little game with me" smile-wave combo. "Give it a little more time," Lupita advised me while we went shopping a couple of days ago. "He wants you to give in first. Let him be the one to give up first." Lupita seemed confident in her advice, so I continued to follow it. Yesterday, a da
**SEBASTIANThere comes a point in every man's life where they begin to wonder if their acts of good are as noble as they believe they are.Take me, for example. In an attempt to make sure that Leslie is safe while associating herself with Alejandro, I took it upon myself to install surveillance cameras in her office to watch Alejandro whenever he's over there. Somehow, that wasn't enough. So, I went as far as to jeopardize Julio's reputation and his goddamn life by employing him to put cameras around the Quintanilla villa in Spain. Again, I remind myself that this is for Leslie; that this is for her protection. My hands are tied tighter than she would ever believe. This is the only way I can possibly intervene in her and Aleja
**"He just...apologized?" Not only is Paul in disbelief at the news, but I am, too. I sit on Paul's couch, playing with the sides of my coffee cup as I wait for him to say something else, but he just stares at me, mouth agape. Neither of us expected Sebastian to apologize for his behavior.Genuinely, at that. "It was after our meeting with the AFA. He pulled me aside and apologized. He claimed he was only trying to 'protect me.'" "From Alejandro?" Paul asks. I nod. "I don't know why. I think it has to do with their professional issues; Sebastian isn't too fond of the Quintanilla's." "And why is that?" I s
**I suppose I look like her.My mother, I mean. I see the resemblance - huge eyes that appear vacant most of the time. Dark hair, sharp nose. She's a very beautiful woman, Genina Malatova - that's a fact I can believe. But my mother? I'm still processing. I'm still under the impression that Jamie McLelland is my mother; that Jamie is somewhere in Scotland waiting for me, and that Sebastian has no idea what he's talking about.I have spent the better half of the first week of August staring at photos of Genina. I've been reading autobiographies about her family and about her journey to becoming Queen of Venetia (a country that I have never visited, and am reluctant on visiting now). When her father - my grandfather - Josef Malatova suffered a stroke that left half of his body par
**When the journalist finally walks away, I let Sebastian have it."What the hell is wrong with you?!" I snap at him, making it apparent that I am far from happy."What do you mean?" He replies. Playing the dumb card isn't smart at this moment."Cut the bullshit, Sebastian." I look around, making sure no one is aware of our animated conversation. "Putting your hand on my hip like that? Are you crazy?""Really? That's what you're so pressed over?" he rolls his eyes. Temperamentally, at that. "Jesus Christ, just relax. It isn't a big deal.""It is a big deal! It might not be to you as you're trapped in your bub
** "Benvenidad a ele paisia bella,Venetia. Welcome to the beautiful land of Venetia." I've been cramming as much Venetian as I can since I got onto the 15-hour flight here. Luckily, Venetian is a Romanic language like Spanish and Italian (one of these languages I happen to be fluent in) so it hasn't been a lethal task. Still, it's a bit hard to keep up. I clutch myGuide to the Beautiful Venetian Languagepocketbook close to me as I try to navigate my way through the airport. The intercom above broadcasts important information to the many tourists scrambling around in the airport, but unlike the first welcome message transmitted in Venetian and English, the speaker over the intercom decides to talk only in Venetian; the only takeaways I get are the we
** For a moment, I feel like my entire world has completely stopped spinning. It's been almost two weeks since I haven't heard Alejandro's voice, and suddenly now, with a burner phone supplied to me by my royal grandmother in Venetia, he's speaking. To me. "Alejandro?" I mutter into the phone. I can hear him suck in a sharp breath at the sound of my voice. "Leslie?" he says. "Leslie is this...this is you? Jesus Christ." I want to say so much, but so little is coming out of my mouth. "Leslie, I'm sorry," Alejandro says. "I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry for leaving you. Believe me, I know I fucked up and I'm sorry." "Why did you
** I'm tired of fighting. My father would be ashamed of me if he heard these words coming out of my mouth. "Leslie," I can imagine him scolding me. "Don't you ever quit fighting. My girls are fighters; they never quit." I suppose if my dear father understood the circumstances that currently plague me, he would have a change of heart. I should have talked to him before going to Venetia; he probably knew the extent of Ramona's 'fury.' Now that I think about it, talking to him should have been the priority. I could have asked him about what happened between him and Genina and about Ramona - my grandmother. But I didn't. I was too eager to meet her, and now I'm left not empty handed, but with a threat in my palm. Ramona had apparently guided my life this entire time, and I didn't ev
**I thought my victory over Claire Finch would last as long as the buzz around her scandal. Apparently, I was wrong.I'm unsure if it's because the heat has lasted longer in the press, at a constant peak, then expected—two weeks. It's all everyone is talking about. It's all everyonehasbeen talking about since Claire came out with the statement.In my office, I watch an interview that Claire did yesterday with Diane Sawyer about her infidelity scandal. I read the comments more than anything; they're less than sympathetic. I force myself to see the immense positivity in this, but with Sebastian not here to share this victory with me, it's almost useless in a selfish sense. A professional sense? It's an instant boost in my career. A publicist's ace in the
I should tell someone. I should do something. I should say something to someone I trust, but admittedly, I'm too scared. The journal, dark and tattered but still intact, rest on my lap as I sit in my car, too scared to put the keys into the ignition in fear of the car blowing up with me inside it. I've called Isaac and asked him to pick me up from the restaurant due to "car trouble;" I didn't mention the journal to him. He would only tell me that I should have listened to him about moving to Venetia. He would also tell me that this is certainly Garrett's doing—everything I already know being told to me over again. I don't open the journal again. I feel like I'm invading Sebastian's memories if I were to read it again; he's let go of the drama that's surrounded it. Now that it's back, all of its baggage comes with it. I should burn it. Bury it. Hide it somewhere. Part of me wants to
** I tap my fingers impatiently against the table top, watching restaurant goers enjoy their mimosas and laugh over their egg toasts. Brunch seemed like a reasonable time for Claire to meet me. Not for dinner or lunch or even breakfast, but brunch. That was the only time she'd agree to. She also set the place for our meeting—The Edenboroughin Beverly Hills. Very upscale eatery; money is dripping from every guest in the room. Claire, who had me make the reservation, texted me and told me she would be a little late the moment I walked into the restaurant. At that point, I knew she was messing with me. But I don't mind indulging in her childish antics. The fact that she agreed to meet with me is progress enough. "Can I get you started with something to drink, miss Ki
**JANUARYFor the last thirty days, I've been dealing with the most unbearable anxiety.Not because of everything that happened in December—I have been seeing a therapist for almost an entire month who has helped me tremendously with correctly channeling my feelings about everything that happened to me; Sebastian promised to talk to someone if I did, so we're both making weekly visits to shrinks.It isn't work, either. Work has been "relatively" normal ever since I returned to my apartment and eventually got back into my routine. The ideal reasons aren't the reasons at all. The real reason involves a man that I can't seem to get enough of—a man that seems to always spiral my life out of con
** Sebastian's house has a heavy, eerie feeling to it when no one is here. Its vast walls and weaving hallways have to always be occupied. If not, it's like an abandoned castle from legend. I wonder how Sebastian managed to dwell here on his own when he wasn't hosting parties. I sit outside most of the day on one of the chairs in the courtyard. With my laptop, I get back to work; it takes my mind off of last night. I want to feel somewhat normal again but in truth, I don't know if everything will ever be truly normal like it once was. I suppose this is the life I live now, and I have to learn how to adjust to it instead of running away from it. Hours pass and so do countless emails. I've responded to every media outlet in my i
** I wait for the walls to cave in on themselves. I wait for the lights to go out and for everyone to disappear. Suddenly, I'll be free falling. And right before I hit the ground, I'll jolt myself awake; this is a dream. I want this to be a dream. I want to wake up right next to Leslie with the sunrays and the sheets and shit. I don't want this to be real. But after waiting for the end of the dream, it never comes. This is real life. What I'm seeing is one-hundred percent real. Claude, Isaac and Penny stand beside me, staring in the same direction that I am but wearing different facial expressions; I'm the only one whose expression isn't distinctive. Salvador continues to try and wake Alejandro up. There's a small groan that emanates from him, but he still remai
**SEBASTIANI like watching her sleep.She'll never know this, though. Never on my fucking life; I always preach about how ridiculous it is to watch someone as they're deep in slumber, but fuck, I can't help it this time—she looks so beautiful. Angelic, almost. Peaceful, too. I've done this before, watch her sleep. We were at my mom's house in Tennessee. I went through a rough patch, and she slept on the couch in my room through the night. When I woke up, she was still there, wrapped in a blanket up to her neck, eyes soft and without worry. Now is a little different. Now, she's underneath my sheets with the fabric clinging to the titillating curves of her body. Her bare legs stick out through my bedding, her breasts barely covered. Her hair is a m
** I don't know how to feel about the sight in front of me. Alejandro being carried away. That's what I see, sitting on the ground with Sebastian's arms still wrapped around me. I watch Isaac and Claude lift his body up and haul him out of the room. His eyes are closed, hair hanging back to reveal more of the gash on his nose—the gash I created. I just stare, my body in a state of shock with my limbs frozen stiff. They struggle to haul Alejandro's mass through the door, but they succeed, the sounds of their laborious breathing being heard as they travel down the hall. When they're gone, I look around the room at the mess—the ceiling plaster scattered on the floor, the broken lamp, overturned furniture. None of it seems real when the images burn into my brain. Sebastian begins to remove his hold on me, slowly as if it's a danger to my wellbeing for him to break away. "I'll be right back," he assures me. His voice is certain and adamant
** The only thought that races through my mind is death. Alejandro is going to kill me. That's what's going to happen. He's going to shoot me, and the moment everyone downstairs hears the gunshot, it will be too late; the gun is already pressed into my back. All he needs to do is pull the trigger. "I don't want to hurt you, Leslie," Alejandro whispers in my ear. I'm too scared to speak; he told me not to make a sound. I breathe in the rough leather of his glove and tense against the gun on my back. Eyes closed, I wait for him to shoot. But he never does. Instead, he removes the gun, still keeping his hand over my mouth. I'm pressed even further into his chest, smelling the sweat and tobacco stuck to his clothing. The sound of knocking on the door makes us both jump in alarm. "Leslie, it's me," Sebastian says on the other side. The moment I hear his voice, I scream even louder into Alejandro's glove. "Shut up," he growled into m