**

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 paralyzed, the Venetian parliament and Josef himself deemed it absolutely necessary for Genina to take her father's place as ruler of Venetia. No one ever expected to see Genina on the throne at such a young age; Josef was very young himself when his stroke happened. But Josef was and still is wheelchair bound, has permanently damaged speech and cannot take care of himself, so him remaining King of the country would have been a disservice to everyone, I suppose.

I don't know why I'm torturing myself with all of this right now. Claire's birthday party planning should be my priority, not to mention the dozens of other things I have left to do. But I can't break away from my computer screen holding this still shot of her - Genina standing taut, blue ribbon draped around her shoulder weighed down by royal pins. A large crown is on her head sparkling with jewels that probably add another ten pounds to its weight. She was my age when she took this photo - twenty-seven. And in my head, I'm trying to figure out where I came in during this time? How did she manage to keep her pregnancy a secret?

Does she wonder where I am? Does she even care to meet me?

I close my laptop when my intercom turns on - Alejandro is downstairs. I buzz him in and prepare myself to look as if I'm perfectly fine in the physical and mental sense. He knows about my mother - my apparent mother. He asked if I was going to try and come in contact with her.

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I doubt I'll ever even get through to her; she's royalty. There's no way I could get in contact easily."

Three knocks on the front door. I walk and open it to find Alejandro leaning against the door frame, already certain that I have been doing myself a disservice by stalking Genina online.

I welcome him inside my apartment. He slowly walks in, observing everything like he expects something unusual to appear.

"I'm making tacos," I announce to try and kill the silence. "You like tacos, right?"

I realize how racist that statement is when Alejandro starts laughing.

"I-I'm sorry, I-I didn't...I know you're not Mexican and I didn't mean to assume I just thought that you would like tacos - "

"It's fine." he finishes laughing. "If you're making them, then yes, I do like them."

Alejandro easily sees through my mask. Once I retreat into the kitchen to begin cutting lettuce and tomatoes, he comes up right behind me, snaking his arms around my waist in an attempt to show some type of empathy.

I sigh. "Alejandro, you don't have to do this."

"Do what?" he says, resting his chin on the top of my head.

"Feel sorry for me. I'm doing alright, believe it or not."

"I'm not feeling sorry for you. I'm actually just seeing how you cut the tomatoes."

For a moment, I'm taken by the cute way he says tomatoes, purposefully thickening his accent over the word. But regardless, I set my knife down so I can turn and look at him.

"Really," I stress to him. "I'm fine. I've got too much on my mind right now to worry about my biological mother. And besides, it's clear that she doesn't want anything to do with me since she hasn't gotten in contact with me these past twenty-seven years; too busy ruling an entire country, I suppose." I resume cutting the tomatoes a little more aggressively. "I appreciate being told the truth, but I've decided to let it go."

As I continue destroying this fruit, Alejandro places his hand on top of mind, stopping me. Every time he holds my hand like this, I always imagine the wolf tattooed on his skin devouring my palm.

Silently, he begins mincing the tomato until it's down to small, intricately cut pieces - better than what I was doing.

"Do you want me to cut the rest?" Alejandro asks me once he's finished. "I don't think I can trust you with a knife right now."

I shake my head down at the floor. It's clear I'm not fine. In fact, I'm a wreck. An absolute wreck. My mind is plagued with these fabricated memories of her; I almost regret letting Sebastian tell me who she is.

Alejandro suddenly reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper. He hands it to me, but I don't open it.

"What is this?"

"I pulled a couple of strings," he explains, "got in touch with some contacts of mine in Greece who redeemed some favors they had with a couple of Venetian council members. It took a while, but they were able to give me Genina's secretary's private line."

The paper Alejandro has given to me is now even more sacred and significant than before. Essentially, my mother's phone number is in there. My real mother's phone number. Alejandro did all of this for me?

"Alejandro," I manage to say, "I...I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, amor," he says. "It's up to you whether or not you want to call the number. But just...I mean, I would give anything to be able to speak to my mother just one last time. You're lucky that you're just a phone number away, sí? "

The look in Alejandro's eyes is disheartening; I can tell that he didn't want to even use his mother as ways for me to get in contact with mine. Regardless, I open the paper and stare at the digits.

"When Petra answers, tell her that I gave you her number. She'll know what to do then."

"Thank you." I tuck the paper into my pocket, not knowing how to thank Alejandro even more. But it seems as if he's a thankless man; 'praise' is the last thing he wants, especially from me.

"Are you well enough to cut tomatoes properly now?" he jokes. I roll my eyes and grab the knife again, feeling the paper burn through my pocket, taunting me.

**

I didn't call Genina last night. I was going to do it this morning, but something else woke me up.

Alejandro spent the night after we had dinner together. I had to convince him; he seemed nervous when I asked him to. But regardless, he agreed to stay the night. But this morning, I hear him yelling like I've never heard him yell before.

I look around my room once I wake up to his voice. Still dark; the curtains are pulled, the other side of the bed as if he was never there. It's when I put on my slippers and walk into the living room that his presence is well recognized.

Alejandro is on the phone, putting on his jeans but throwing his shirt on the arm of my couch as he continues speaking animatedly in Spanish to whoever is on the phone with him. His speech is fast, but I can grasp a bit of what he's saying.

"I'm sorry. I...I know. Yes, I know that. Just tell him...what does he expect me to do?! I'm not over there...just tell Paisa that I'll be...yes, I just turned on the TV right now. How many? Eighty-three?" the long pause is nerve racking. "Jesus Christ..."

Alejandro shakes his head before hanging up and sitting on the arm of the couch, cradling his head in his hands. I inch into the living room and wait for him to look up, but he doesn't. He just sits silent, rubbing his eyes but keeping his head buried in his palms. It isn't until I look at the TV screen - set on CNN - that I understand what he's grieving so heavily about:

If you are joining us now, we are following this story coming in from Colombia, where a large explosion at the Centro Comercial Santafé shopping mall in Medellin has left over a hundred dead, the number of injured almost triple that amount. Colombian officials expect the death toll to rise as the search for survivors begins...

Medellin police have closed off the area as they begin the manhunt for suspects in this attack. Again, we are unsure if this was an act of terrorism or if this was related to the drug cartel wars that have been ravaging the city more significantly the last several months. We are still waiting on more information that we will share with you once we have it...

The clips begin to play as the news anchors speak, people smiling and documenting their day until a large explosion followed by screaming and running ruins it all. The smoke rises high into the air, the fire almost as high. Debris falls and the portion of the mall caves in as people continue to run in vain.

"Oh my God," I whisper in horror. I can't bring myself to say anything else; I'm beyond words. When I look at Alejandro, his head is finally held up and facing the TV screen. But he doesn't look mournful or sad. He looks angry. Pent up with rage - the type of rage that is followed by action. It's one thing for me to hear this news and feel it, but for Alejandro? This is his country. His people.

Right when I place a hand on his bare shoulder, he shrugs it off and stands.

"I have to go," he says bleakly. I don't even have a chance to reply before his shirt is on and his strides are nearing my door.

"Are you going to be alright?" I ask him. What a stupid question to ask, but I'm desperately trying to get more out of him. His reaction is very distant.

He doesn't answer. All he tells me is that he won't be back for a week or two. Maybe a month. At that point, I start to question myself if what I heard was correct.

"Wait, what?" I grab his arm before he leaves. "You're going to Colombia? Why?"

"Why wouldn't I go?" he retorts. I almost back down until I realize that my question hasn't been answered.

"You heard what they said, Alejandro. This could have been terrorists or a fucking drug cartel. Are you seriously going to go over there with this threat looming?"

"It wasn't terrorists," he tells me.

I would have dismissed his reply, had he not followed it with an immediate reaction. But instead, he did - he caught his words too late, showing it in the irate state of his face. He didn't want me to know that. That fact is very clear.

"What do you mean? How do you know that?"

"I have to go-"

"No, don't walk away from me!"

I'm making him angry. I don't mean to, especially during the sensitive situation that is happening in Colombia, but he's being oddly secretive.

"You and I agreed to be open and honest with each other," I remind him. "Right now, I'm getting the feeling that you're hiding something from me. You know I'm like this because I care about you."

His eyes grow somber. Those deep, obsidian eyes that are always so goddamn intense finally relax to show what he's really feeling. Just for a moment, his eyes are a gateway. But that gateway doesn't remain open for a long time. He scratches his beard, avoiding me, then moves his arm out of my hand.

"Leslie, I don't have time for this shit right now. I have to go."

He knows how I am; he knows my inquisitive nature. My prying nature, if you will. He knows that I'm suspicious of him, which is why he leaves without saying another word.

And I let him leave. Just like that. Not knowing when I'll see him again.

**

So, it has been a week since Alejandro left.

He's in Colombia. That's all I know. Literally, that's all I know. He hasn't contacted me since he walked out of my apartment mornings ago. There's no way for me to get in touch with him; he won't answer his phone when I call, nor does he reply to any of my texts.

Since the morning of the mall bombing in Medellin, more information has surfaced about the incident. It was confirmed that it was related to a drug cartel feud between two warring factions - the Medellin cartel and the Bogota cartel (who apparently have recently become a prominent figure in the drug trade business). The President of Colombia came out stating that they are looking for the suspects to bring them into custody. That doesn't make sense to me; bringing two powerful drug cartels into custody? I'm interested in how that will work.

I'm worried, to be honest. Actually, I'm more than worried. I'm terrified. Alejandro leaves the moment the bombing happens and I don't hear from him for a week. The minute I heard that it was cartel related, the fear overtook me. I wondered if he was alright; what he was doing in Colombia and if he's a target; the Quintanilla's are prominent figures not only in Medellin, but in the entire country of Colombia. I'm sure that his presence there is know to these types of criminals.

Pair this with still having my mother's contact in my possession without having used it, I'm a bit of an emotional mess at the moment. But really, that doesn't seem to be unusual for me.

Today happens to be Claire's birthday party. After weeks of planning, everything is finally commencing tonight. On her actual birthday, she and Sebastian enjoyed an expensive dinner in Beverly Hills that the paparazzi couldn't get enough of. Sebastian gifted her a ring that's worth more than what many Americans make in six months. It's a beautiful ring - a ring I caught her not wearing when we met days afterward. Maybe I'm being bitter, but I don't think she deserves it. It's too mature and refined for a girl like her - a girl who barely turned twenty-one at the beginning of this month.

Claire's party is held in a large ballroom holding an extravagant chandelier to illuminate the entire room. She begged the planner to make her party a 'show.' She insisted on aerial acrobats, circus animals, fire dancers and the best DJ Los Angeles could offer. Claire's father had no issue with the price.

"Anything for my little girl," he told the contractors. My heart ached at the number of zeroes in the quote Mr. Finch received for his precious little girl's birthday party, but he signed the paperwork without a twitch of a brow. Now, we see if the price lives up to the hype. As Claire's publicist, I'm sort of forced to go to this. And as Claire's boyfriend, Sebastian is definitely forced to attend this as well. Claire arrives at the scene after the ballroom is full with charismatic guests dancing and enjoying drinks. Her entrance is loud and dramatic - introductory music paired with jewels, glitter, and fluorescent lights. Camera men filming her walk down a long red carpet until she's snug in a pink cushioned, gold trimmed throne that shirtless dancers hold up high for everyone to see. Her tiara sparkles in the light as her satin evergreen dress makes her fiery hair pop. It is a little much, to be honest - when I turned twenty-one, I went out for drinks at a local club and got shitfaced.

The end.

By 10 PM, the ballroom is completely packed with people. Cameras flash left and right, trying to get the right angle in document of this legendary party. I'm orchestrating as well, making sure that Claire is caught in a good light. The last thing I'd want is to see Claire downing tequila shots in People Magazine.

"Have a drink!" she yells at me. She isn't drunk, but I'm sure she'll get there.

"I'm alright, Claire," I assure her. "You enjoy your night."

She shrugs and chugs the drink meant for me. Not only is she oblivious to how 'well' she's fitting the rich-white-American-heiress stereotype right now, but she's also oblivious to the fact that Sebastian is late.

The party started at 9, and he's still fucking late.

I suppose it's a good thing I'm stressed about something work-related; it keeps my mind off of my missing boyfriend or my biological mother. But I know I'm going to have to face the music soon, and a twenty one-year-old's birthday party isn't going to allow me to hide from it for long.

Sebastian finally arrives. I know because of all of the camera phones following his every move as he walks in with Claude and his friends Chris, Trevor, and Franklin.

The three wombats. Great.

Sebastian approaches me once he makes it through the crowd. I don't know whether or not to yell or smile at him. Surprisingly, his mood is rather chipper. He isn't in his work attire but instead is wearing casual clothing - a t-shirt and jeans. He looks good, but then again he looks good in everything he wears.

Even nothing? My sub-conscious teases. I push these thoughts down; I can't be thinking this way.

"You're late," is the first thing I say to him. He pouts his lips, trying to work that boyish charm on me.

"I got held up with work," is his defense. I don't bother pressing the issue, but instead, urge him to socialize. His friends are the first to go enjoy the scene (gorgeous women and free alcohol, to be specific) while Sebastian meets up with Claire in the middle of the floor - an action that everyone is loving. They're both gorgeous, rich, young and famous. Of course, the desire for their relationship is going to be evident in the eyes of this party's populace. If only they knew that their 'chemistry' is all some facade; he doesn't love her. He doesn't even like her.

I'm being bitter again. Watching Claire laugh and kiss Sebastian while the crowd takes photos and records the spectacle on their snap chats is making me burn with envy that my significant other can't even find the decency to call me back. Claude whisks Darcy into a conversation, so now I'm alone. And against my better judgment, I try texting and calling Alejandro again with no avail in terms of a response or even a callback. Once I come to the consensus that my own boyfriend is either dead or ignoring me, I go out onto the floor and try to do my job to the best of my ability. I secure some new contacts and butter up some journalists who will now write a glowing story about Claire's party despite the group of girls throwing up in the far corner. But by the end of my happy hour, I find that I'm even angrier than before.

"Hey," Sebastian suddenly says behind me. It's almost too loud to hear him, but I turn around to find him with a margarita in his hand. He doesn't drink margaritas, so I'm assuming that the drink is for me.

"What's wrong?" he continues, his face falling slightly.

"Nothing," I lie with a smile. By the way he stares at me, I think he assumes that I'm still caught in the situation with Genina. Which I am, to an extent. But I'm also caught on Alejandro. The thought comes to me briefly - I wonder if Sebastian knows what Alejandro is doing in Colombia?

"Is that drink for me?" I ask, trying to steer his worry in another direction.

Sebastian nods. "I figured you could use a drink, based on all the hard work you do."

"Kiss ass," I mumble as I sip the beverage. The drink is surprisingly well-made, so I sip some more.

"It's good, right?" Sebastian asks. "The bartenders are on it tonight."

I nod. "They are."

Sebastian smiles down at me. It's the first time I've seen a genuine smile come out of him in a long time, and it's refreshing.

"What's got you in a good mood?" I ask him. He downs his whiskey instead of answering me. And knowing that he's toying with me, I ask him over and over again until he caves in and answers.