The limousine pulled to a smooth stop in front of Don Diego's estate, and if I hadn't been suffocating under my own nerves, I might have taken a moment to appreciate the grandeur of it.
Don Diego never did anything by halves, and his home was a reflection of that. The villa was surrounded by sprawling gardens and an iron-gated entrance that made it clear—this was not just a home. This was a fortress of influence, a place built to command respect.
Built by a man who deserved not in the least bit of respect.
This was also the place where María José lived.
My fingers twitched against my lap, it was a nervous tic I couldn't suppress. I had braced myself to see her again, and had spent the entire ride convincing myself that she would look miserable, exhausted, maybe even resentful after what had happened last night.
Maybe then I could delude myself into thinking she'd forgotten.