“Everyone called me crazy for marrying a 60-year-old woman,” but on our wedding night I saw a mark on her shoulder, I heard “I have to tell you the truth” and I understood that my whole life had been a lie

—You’re sick.

“I didn’t recognize you at first,” she blurted out, as if trying to catch me off guard before I exploded. “When I met you at the house, I just saw a good, intelligent, noble young man… and I approached him. Then I started noticing dates, stories, gestures. I had someone investigate. Eight months ago, I learned the truth.”

I looked at her the way you look at someone who has just set your life on fire.

—Eight months ago? And you still married me?

Celia lowered her head.

—I tried to push you away.

—Not enough!

“No,” she admitted, broken. “Not enough.”

I hated her for saying it so honestly, because it took away my comfort from simply calling her a monster.

—And the bodyguards?

—They’re for Octavio. He’s still alive. And if he finds out who you are, he can use you.

The phrase pierced me.

Not only had he let me fall in love, he had also, without saying a word, thrust me into the heart of a war he had been waiting for for twenty years.

“And my mother?” I asked, my throat tight. “The woman who raised me?”