CAITLIN CREWS - The Guardian's Virgin Ward

Childish, maybe. But that was the point. She’d actually been a child ten years ago. Would it have killed the famously intense and ruthless Izar to be a bit kinder to his late business partners’ daughter that awful day? Liliana been suddenly, cruelly left all alone in the world when her parents’ private plane had gone down somewhere over the Pacific. She’d been twelve years old, made of equal parts puppy fat and terrible pain, and nothing bad had ever happened to her before. She might have been sheltered—but weren’t twelve-year-old girls supposed to be a little bit sheltered, if at all possible? She understood that Izar might have been a bit young for sudden-onset parenting, being just under thirty himself and used to a rather more exciting lifestyle than one including an orphaned preteen, presumably, but had it really been necessary to remove her from the only home she’d known in England to install her in that harsh and hateful school in Switzerland? And then leave her there to rot without a single visit ever after?

“Hate me if you feel you must,” Izar had told her in his cold, measured, immovable way, his native Spanish making the words seem warmer than they were. Right there in the foyer of the house she’d spent her entire life in mere moments after he’d ordered the staff to pack up all her things. Twelve-year-old Liliana had been certain she was looking at the devil himself, all hellfire black eyes, that Roman coin of a nose, and the brooding way he’d stared down at her. A muscle in his lean cheek had clenched once. Then again. “I am your guardian whether you like it or do not, and your feelings cannot affect my decisions. You will do as I say, regardless.”

And she had, of course. What choice had there been?

“Get a hold of yourself,” Liliana muttered to herself now. She only realized she’d spoken out loud when she heard her own voice against the indie darling band currently crooning from the speakers, and she flushed. Then hoped that the music had drowned her out—because her roommates’ friends already thought she was a bit off, she was aware. They didn’t need any further evidence.

Izar had not been impressed with her decision to attend college in the States instead of the horrifying wannabe convent he’d had in mind in the far reaches of the European Alps. He’d grudgingly allowed it when she’d promised him that she was only applying to what few all-women colleges remained in America. Then he had very nearly rescinded his permission entirely, because he certainly hadn’t been pleased at the idea that she’d be living in New York City, known den of iniquity, once she’d made her final choice.

He’d even called, the rare gesture underscoring the depths of his misgivings. Or more accurately, one of his aides had called, then demanded she hold until he could sweep onto the line like a tornado.

“If there is so much as a whisper of scandal connected to you, Liliana, you will regret it,” he’d told her in a quietly menacing tone that had made every hair on her body stand on end. “I will pull you out of that college myself, with my own two hands, and you will not enjoy the consequences. Do you understand me?”

“You rarely leave much room for misunderstanding,” she’d replied, wisely making her voice meek rather than foolishly defiant at the last moment. That she’d dared even that much had made her stomach flip over. “Sir.”

There had been nothing but silence for far too long and she’d been sure that she’d gone too far. That he would consign her to another prison term in another school so far away from the world she’d never learn how to live in it. That there was no escape from the brooding shadow he cast over her life.

“I’ll allow it,” he’d said eventually, so grudging and dark Liliana was amazed the phone receiver in her hand didn’t freeze. “On a provisional basis only.”

She’d marked it as a victory, and who cared if it was a narrow one.

But he was the one winning in the end, she realized now, as she was still standing there like a fool with her back against her own living room wall. Izar had two years left to interfere in her life as he pleased, but he wasn’t here in her apartment tonight. The very idea was laughable. First, she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about where she was living these days. And second, Izar had never visited her. Ever. He hadn’t made contact in months.

She told herself that hollow sensation, deep inside, was relief.

Why on earth do you want his recognition? a little voice asked from somewhere inside that hollowness. You shouldn’t. You should want him to go away and leave you alone, forever.

She told herself she did, and no matter that such a thing would never happen. Of course she did.

Because she couldn’t possibly want the attention of the man who’d abandoned her as a child. Certainly not. That would be clichéd and silly and deeply, unutterably sad, and Liliana was finished being any of those things.

At that, she launched herself into the crowd, scanning the room for anyone Kay might consider the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life. There were any number of contenders, this being New York City and basically ground zero for Kay’s sort of dream man—but no. Jules was over near the bookcase in her usual throng of admirers, and she jerked her head in a wholly unsubtle manner toward the small bit of the L-shaped living room when Liliana caught her eye. That was the part of the common area that led into their three railroad-style bedrooms, stacked one on top of the next so only the farthest back had any real privacy. They’d drawn straws for the back bedroom when they’d moved in and Liliana had won it, which she’d had a lot of time to regret in these past months. The privacy was nice, sure, but it meant that she spent a lot of time creeping through Jules’s and Kay’s bedrooms, pretending with all her might not to see what might or might not be happening in their beds after their giddy nights out.

She waved an acknowledgment at Jules and obediently made her way through the clumps of merrymaking people until she pushed through the first bedroom door. It was quieter in Jules’s room, though only slightly. A large, spirited group of people—including a few women Liliana recognized from Barnard—were piled on the bed, laughing as they watched something on a laptop.

“Keep going,” one of the Barnard women said when she saw Liliana, flashing a knowing sort of grin. “Jules told him to wait for you in private.”

Liliana was beginning to wonder if her roommates had done something unforgivably humiliating, like hire one of those male strippers Jules was always threatening to unleash upon her. Liliana flushed at the very idea. She’d barely survived that sloppy, awful kiss her senior year. A naked, dancing man was likely to send her to the hospital.

You really are pathetic, aren’t you? a hard voice that greatly resembled her memory of her guardian’s asked from deep inside her.

She hated that voice.

Liliana wrenched open Kay’s door—but there was no one there. Not a soul on the queen-sized futon that took up almost all the available floor space in the tiny room, so she pulled in a breath that was shakier than she wanted to admit and tiptoed around it toward the door to her own bedroom.

A sense of foreboding swept through her when she put her hand on her own doorknob, a prickling sort of chill that washed over her from her scalp to her heels, then back. Surely her friends wouldn’t embarrass her. They never had in all the time she’d known and lived with them, here or in their suite at college. And Lord knew she’d always been the easiest of targets. She thought back, but she hadn’t seen the faintest shred of that particular, pointed glee in either of her friends’ expressions that might suggest a practical joke was in the offing.