**

"I can't believe you came by!"

This is said with no trace of discontent but contrarily with gratefulness instead. Alejandro and I are in the kitchen, having excused ourselves from the group (finally) to reconvene. I'm still flabbergasted at his presence.

"Your text sounded as if you were in trouble," he replies, taking more bruschetta from the tray and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, savoring the taste. His jaw is strong and defined when he eats.

"You literally saved my ass," I tell him. He laughs even though I'm serious. "I knew it wasn't a good idea, coming here."

"Well, now we're here. The least we can do now is enjoy ourselves."

He's right. Well, partially—it's impossible for one to enjoy themselves once around an entity as cold as my mother.

"I owe you for this one," I say to him while leaving the kitchen. He walks beside me.

"Maybe the date you declined?" he proposes. I stop and look at him with a disapproving yet amused face, but he isn't joking. He wants to go on a date with me and believed that this was the best opportunity to get me to say 'yes.'

"Is that why you came?"

He shakes his head, "No. I came because I thought you would want some company. But it wouldn't hurt for us to enjoy champagne and appetizers by ourselves, no?"

He's right. Again. I want to go on a date with this man, but the cons outweigh the pros, the pros being: he's kind, charming, sexy, generous, mysterious, sexy, considerate, sexy again, even though I've said it twice already. But the cons? I work with his family. His family works with Harrison Incorporated. My love life has been against me ever since it began. And truthfully, the last man I fell for was almost exactly like Alejandro, just with green eyes and an American accent. It makes me wonder if Alejandro and I will end up like me and Sebastian if it gets serious?

Still, the pros outweigh the cons instead of the other way around, my mind counter-argues. You were the one who said that it was time to start doing for you, right?

Right.

"Alright." I raise a finger up at him. "One date. And anything but Italian."

That smirk of gratitude is more descriptive than words. Samantha approaches us and introduces herself to Alejandro independently from my mother's group. They talk in Italian briefly before they both realize that they're fluent in English.

"By the way, I got you a gift," he tells her.

"Me? A gift? You didn't have to do that, Alejandro—"

"No, I insist."

Out of his pocket, he pulls out a black box midway before stopping himself and narrowing his eyes at Samantha.

"You have an iPhone, right?" he asks Samantha, and when she nods her head 'yes,' he hands her a box containing an Apple watch. Her mouth is to the ground.

"Thank God you have an iPhone," he mumbles quietly. We all laugh.

"You can't be serious! I don't even know you, but I love you already!"

Samantha has always been quite the hugger, so Alejandro is taken back when she wraps his arms around him and thanks him many times over.

"He's a keeper, Leslie," Samantha tells me before returning to our cousins to show them what Alejandro brought her as a gift. I almost tell her that he isn't my boyfriend, but exposure would ruin the legendary moment we had with my mother's entourage moments before.

The rest of the party, no one utters a word to me under Mother's orders; it's either silence or small talk. And mother hates it. It's safe to say that everyone loves Alejandro. He's very good with people. Almost too good. Whenever someone asked about how we met or how long we've been together, his answers were extremely convincing. All I had to do was sit back, smile, and show signs of affection to keep it factual.

As Florentina speaks to him (she's already in love with him, telling him to run away with her to Florence if it doesn't work out between him and I) Samantha comes up to me, trying to compute her new Apple watch.

"Did you know he was going to get me this?" she asks me, looking down at the technology, "These things cost so much money!"

"I had no idea," I reply honestly. "He's quite unpredictable."

"I almost feel bad for accepting either of your gifts," she tells me. There's sincerity in her eyes when she tells me this; I've noticed that when my mother's influence isn't poisoning her, Samantha is a very sweet girl. I feel bad for not growing a bond with her, but our mother has made it nearly impossible; Samantha is her prize and her prize alone. And it saddens me; you can tell Samantha doesn't have a mind of her own sometimes, since everyone is always thinking for her.

"Samantha, it's your birthday. Don't feel bad at all. And trust me, Alejandro won't let you give it back to him."

Samantha laughs, takes a glass of champagne from a server and sips it carefully. "Speaking of Alejandro: Leslie, he's amazing. I mean, look at him—gorgeous, super nice, and rich, too? Mom can't stand it. You're making me want to go to Colombia to find a man like him; Italian men are too clingy."

That joke, I laugh genuinely at. "You can always find a Scottish man? Funny, friendly, loud and proud of their country."

I expect Samantha to grimace, but she shrugs with a smug look before giggling at the thought of dating a Scottish man; Granny Fae would definitely approve.

"Hey," I think hard before asking her what I want to ask. "Are you still looking for a job?"

She almost chokes on her drink at the question. "J-job? Yes, yes of course! I'm still looking."

"You'll be finishing up college next year, right?"

"Yeah. I'm a little behind everyone else, but I'll definitely be graduating next year."

"That's good. Look—my firm is always looking for interns. Put in an application for an internship and I'll add in a good word for you."

I pull out my calendar to see when I'm free. I see her looking at my phone, interested it all the colored tabs on my planner and my packed schedule. It's clear how often Samantha leaves this house when it's not for school: rarely.

"Come by next Friday around 1:30 and we'll go over your resume and stuff. Sound good?"

This is the closest Samantha and I have ever been. I don't know if I should feel proud or ashamed.

"Sounds good," she says, smiling. "Thank you."

**

The party has died down at this point. Most of our family has left except for Fiore, Florentina, their children and a couple of my mother's friends. Alejandro and I stand by the unlit fireplace and people-watch. Sofia and Nicole are in the corner with their partners, staring and talking about me. I sigh like it's a chore to endure their gossip.

"What's wrong?" Alejandro asks.

"My cousins," I reply, agitated. "They've been talking about me the entire night. They're like clones of my mother."

"Don't pay them any mind. They're jealous," Alejandro says. I laugh like it's a joke but he's dead serious.

"Jealous of what, exactly?"

"Look at you," he says, his eyes inspecting my body so lustfully I can't help but look away. "You have everything they don't have, señora—university degree, excelling career, expensive car, high-end clothes, beauty and grace," he leans in like he's telling me a secret, and I listen with the utmost interest. "But the most important part—the part that they hate—is that you did it all by yourself. They envy that. Having someone by your side isn't a 'need' for you like it is for them. It's a 'want.' I can assure you that their boyfriends give them everything; they look like bankers or lawyers, from what I see. So those women don't know how to be independent, and that is why they talk about you: independent women have the most critics."

I never thought about it that way. I'm so used to magnifying my failures that I rarely ever take pride in my accomplishments. Alejandro seeing these accomplishments more than I do makes me feel guilty that I'm so oblivious.

I ponder Alejandro's words of wisdom until his phone rings. He excuses himself to the hallway to take the call, and right when he leaves, Aunt Florentina comes stumbling by with Edgar holding her up. She's drinking wine now—wine that's spilling all over the floor from her embarrassing balance.

"Bella!" she exclaims. "Why are you standing here all by yourself? Where is your sexy date, eh? I like him very much. I might leave my husband and find a man in Medellin instead."

"He's on the phone." I laugh when she wiggles her brows. "Florentina, how many drinks have you had?"

"More than I can count," she slurs. Edgar takes the wine glass from her hand and tells her that she's had enough. She sticks her tongue out at him, tells him to stop being such a palloso, and pulls out a cigarette.

"So, bella," she says as she lights the cigarette and exhales smoke. "Where is your mom now?"

"I think she's in the kitchen—"

"No, no, not that mom. Your real mom. How is she?"

"I...e-excuse me?"

Usually Florentina laughs when she tells a joke like that. And since she's drunk, I expect that loud, drunken laughter even more. But she just stares on, eyes blue and expectant of an answer from me.

"You know who I'm talking about," she says. "Edgar, remember that woman's name? Jennifer, or Janine, or Janice..."

I see Edgar's grip on her shoulder grow tighter, "Florentina..."

"Jamie! That was her name. Jamie McLelland! How is she, bella? Still in Scotland or no?"

'Confused' is an insulting understatement for what I'm feeling. I've never heard of that name, nor do I know who she's talking about.

"Florentina, you're drunk." Edgar tries to pull her away, but she's stiff as a stone. "Let's go get you some water."

"I might be drunk, but I know what I'm talking about." That laugh I was waiting for? It finally comes. "Come on? You remember the story, no? The one Francesca told you about your dad's best friend when he was younger? A-and the baby and the adoption and how you were the baby, right? I was there when you were born; Jamie was a strong woman. That birth took hours—"

"I don't know that story," I tell Florentina, my lungs constricting. "I've never heard it."

Now she isn't smiling anymore. She smokes more of her cigarette, regretful of what she just told me.

"No one told you yet, bella? Are you serious?"

I keep waiting for the punchline where Florentina tells me that she's joking and that I'm not actually adopted. But Florentina is serious, so I rule it under drunken gibberish but that opts out as a viable reason too, since Edgar's face gives her statement even more credibility. So, if what Florentina is saying is true, and my mother isn't my real mother, all these years have been a lie. All the neglect, the depression, the pain, the mental abuse and the trauma were built upon a fucking lie.

And at the same time, everything makes sense.

"I...you know what? What am I saying?" she laughs uncomfortably, but the damage has already been done. "I've had too much to drink, bella. Forget all that nonsense, OK? Edgar, you were right—I need some water. Actually, sit me down somewhere."

And just like that, Florentina leaves as if she didn't just unveil a huge family secret in two minutes. I can't move, but I want to. I want to go into that kitchen and confront my mother; my mind is racing, but that's the only thing I can think of clearly.

Eventually, I can move—fast enough to storm into the kitchen while my mother is drinking wine and talking with Aunt Fiore.

"Mom." I hold onto the counter because my hands are shaking terribly. "I need to talk to you."

I'm speaking in English so she knows I'm serious. Still, she gives me that condescending, arrogant look of hers.

"Now, you want to talk to me?" she replies harshly. "You were so serious; you said you had nothing to say to me, amore."

She's never called me that before. She's only showing off for Aunt Fiore. I cut the bullshit and get straight to names as she laughs at me with Fiore like I'm a mockery.

"Who is Jamie? Jamie McLelland?"

That shuts her up quickly. And in all my years on this earth, I have never seen the look on my mother's face like the one I'm seeing now—fear. And that's when I know that Florentina's confession reigns with truth.

"Wh-what?" she stutters softly, diminishing the small hope in me that Aunt Florentina was lying; my mother is never soft-spoken. Ever.

"Aunt Florentina just told me about this woman named Jamie McLelland. What is she talking about?"

Aunt Fiore excuses herself out of the kitchen swiftly. I don't get a chance to see her face, so I don't know if she was aware of this news all along like Aunt Florentina and Edgar. Mother taps her bright red nails against the glass of her drink and stares at me blankly like my face is a hypnotist's act.

"Mom."

"It's just gossip," is her answer. After everything told to me, she thinks I will possibly believe a half-assed lie like that.

"Don't lie to me, mom. What is going on? Who is Jamie?"

"I said It's just gossip—"

"Don't fucking lie to me!"

The silverware and wine bottles rattle as I slam my hands against the counter. My mother takes this as an act of aggression and acts promptly.

"You want the truth? Fine." She tosses her wine glass carelessly into the sink and stalks towards me, her heels vicious against the tiled flooring. "Jamie McLelland? That Scottish slut? She is your mother, Leslie. Your lovely father just had to stick his dick in that disgusting, filthy backwoods farm girl and as a result, you came along. And I wish, oh I wish, that he would have at least worn a goddamn condom while he did it!"

Her words don't hurt as much as they should. What hurts the most is the realization that my childhood was a fallacy—that both of my parents kept this maternal secret from me and intended on keeping it a secret for the rest of my life.

My mouth is partially open because I expect myself to say something back, but nothing happens. Mother's eyes are glossed over; her insults were a mask. She never wanted me to know about this woman named "Jamie" because it most likely meant that it would maintain that hold—that power—she had over me. But know that I know, I have the chance to be free from her since the truth is a freeing entity. What I do with the truth, though will determine this.

"B-but who was the one who raised you, huh?" She asks rhetorically, struggling to keep me latched on. "Me! I raised you, not her! I gave you everything you needed! So, don't you dare talk—"

"Oh, my god," I laugh spiritlessly. "You can't be serious right now? You gave me everything I needed? Mom, you made sure that my life was a living hell! You're the reason that I was miserable an-and the reason why I wished I was dead every single day of my fucking life! You took everything good away from me, you neglected me, you abused me, you starved me, you mocked me and you made it clear that you hated the fact that I even existed. But now that I'm suddenly finding out that my real mother is out there somewhere, you want me to recognize your 'accomplishments?' Why, Mom? Why now?!"

Mother, for the first time, is pleading with me. But it's too late for a plea.

"It makes perfect sense now, Mom. I'm starting to think that the reason you hate me so much is because I wasn't your blood to begin with."

"Leslie—"

"If that's the case," I continue, fighting back the tears that want to spill out. "Why did you fight for custody of both me and Samantha? Why didn't you just let me stay with my dad like I wanted?"

It's funny how, the minute I give my mother the opportunity to speak, she has nothing to say. I genuinely wonder why she fought so hard to keep my sister and I, yet hated my presence every day I was around her? But if this "Jamie" woman is as legit as my mother and Aunt are telling me, then the reasons are clear:

Power. My mother's way of coping with my father's infidelity, perhaps. She wanted him to know that she still could achieve the upper hand, despite the fact that he did indeed cheat on her.

Control. Having custody of my father's children—especially the child that was never her own—made her acquire a form of control that outweighed anything else. I don't know how upset she was about my father's unfaithfulness, but in the end, making me suffer for it made her influence significant. My father had an idea about the abuses inflicted upon me by my mother, but it wasn't until I went to live with him when I was sixteen that he found out everything she did to me.

Vengeance. The most important reason, I believe. She wanted revenge for what my father did. It didn't matter how she got it, but she was going to get it. She saw me as a way to get her revenge; that's all I was to her. It explains why she kept us away from our father.

However, this doesn't explain why she agreed to take me in as a baby. It doesn't explain why she stayed, either. Is that Jamie's part of the story she needs to explain? My father's? Who knows. But if my mother stayed with my father after she found out what he did and kept me and acted as my step-mother solely out of vengeance, power, and control, my mother's heart is blacker and rottener than I ever initially thought. This doesn't excuse the fact of my father cheating on her—not at all. But again, there's more to this than I know; more secrets and lies deep-rooted with the intention of me never finding out. And that's what scares me the most.

So, having heard all I needed to hear from her, I turn to leave the kitchen and hope I can make it out of the house without collapsing. But suddenly, my mother grabs my hand and collapses herself, landing on the floor on her knees and gripping my hand tight enough to stop the circulation running through it.

"Please," she begs. "I'm sorry. Don't do this. You don't know what really happened; I'll tell you everything. I'll tell you everything you want to know. But if you go out there, all they're going to feed you are lies!"

For a moment, I wonder if I should pity her. I stand above her, staring down at my mother who is weak and vulnerable. And I start to cry, the tears flowing down my cheeks instead of being confined where I wanted them. I'm not crying because my mother is on her knees begging for forgiveness, scared that what I'll find out will expose a truth she doesn't want exposed.

I'm crying because after everything she did to my mind, body and soul, she only begs for forgiveness when she knows that what I might find out will hurt her.

Truthfully, I don't know what to do. I stand there and stare at her like I'm memorizing this image of her begging and pleading, knowing I'll never see it again. Seeing her cry like this makes me think. It makes me ponder. I wonder deeply about the history between my father, my mother and this woman named Jamie—my biological mother. It makes me wonder about how far my mother was willing to go for 'revenge.'

And then I remember something my mother told me—something she told me when I confronted her about her working with Garrett:

You're just like her. And she can't win.

Mother was willing to pin Axel's death on me, not to mention plan my long-term unhappiness and demise with a sadistic capitalist in order to ensure that I