Corrupt - Elena M. Reyes Page 0,11

within her grasp. No one knew this. No one suspected. And while Laura pines and he sleeps around, I’m caught in the middle of this unwanted love triangle after her confession with tears in her eyes.

I’m damned no matter which way I turn.

I’m left forcing a smile and praying my disgust doesn’t show.

I’m left imagining another face every night that is forbidden to me.

“Thank God we’re not married yet,” I mutter under my breath for the ninth time as our group—a few women I barely know and her one childhood friend I can’t stand—are ushered toward a VIP table near the very back of the rooftop terrace. The other section is already occupied, but I know better than to look. To be nosy or worse, get caught by the kind of clientele Sergio caters to.

It’s not a secret. The pompous jerk doesn’t hide it. My father’s given him immunity, and he’s using it to his full advantage.

However, the closer we get, the more I’m tempted to.

There’s a pulsing energy that grips me.

A near overwhelming presence that makes my skin hyperaware. Sensitive. And I find myself near floating and not understanding the why.

Each step I take feels as though I am being pulled closer by an invisible tether, a connection that’s making my pulse race and knees feel weak. What’s wrong with me? What was in that shot I had back at Laura’s?

“Hurry up, Solimar,” my cousin calls out and my head snaps up; I’ve frozen in place a good ten steps from them. “My Signio saved us the best seat in the house, and it’s an open-bar night for our group. He’s the best!”

My Signio isn’t meant to be a personal jab at me, but to others, it comes across that way, and the few snickers that follow are proof of that.

She doesn’t think.

She’s too impulsive.

She forgets that our engagement has already been announced and the media is counting down the days to my demise. That if her secret gets out, my father’s wrath will destroy us both.

“Go on,” I say with more bite in my tone than I intend, and at once, the smile drops from her face. Her expression is contrite, and she mouths perdoname. And while I know she’s sorry, that it’s not intentional, the urge to choke her is near maddening. I want to make her understand that this isn’t a game, but I don’t. Instead, I force another fake smile—one I’ve become the master of hiding behind—and avoid making a spectacle that could end up in the tabloid section of our newspaper. The president’s daughter can never be anything less than perfect. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Just like I know coming out tonight was a mistake. Just like I know this—your mess—will burn me in the end.

With one more apologetic look thrown my way, she turns, and the others follow. The six of them head toward our area and I let out a long, tired sigh. I take those few extra seconds to gather my emotions and breathe. To close my eyes and pray.

Papa Dios, please grant me the patience I don’t feel blessed with tonight. Please don’t let us get busted or into any kind of trouble…amen.

It’s then that I feel eyes on me. More than one set, and I look around.

The people around the dance floor and small tables littered throughout stare. They recognize me, and the whispers begin. It’s somewhat subtle at first, but then it’s always the same:

What’s the president’s daughter doing here?

How do I get close?

Not giving anyone the chance to be brave and intercept me, I rush toward our table. Because while I believe Signio isn’t stupid enough to leave us unprotected and have anything fall back on him, my security isn’t here. We’re stupidly out alone while everyone believes we’re at Laura’s highly-secured apartment, a twenty-floor building where only the affluent enter and whose lobby and entrances have armed guards standing at their post.

It’s also where the trackers once inside my phone are now pinging from, thanks to an acquaintance of hers, an ex-intelligence officer who helped us out of the building for some extra platica and a kiss on the cheek from my cousin.

“This place is so berraco, Lau. He’s a keeper and deserves a woman like you.” I catch the words, the thinly veiled insult my way, but roll my eyes. None of these women matter to me, and the one speaking is her oldest friend, a jealous idiot from a banking family who’s