The bruise on my cheekbone had faded to a dull, throbbing purple by morning. Looking into the bathroom mirror under the harsh light of the vanity, the swelling felt like a visible sign of my gullibility. The bed beside me was already empty; Richard was an early riser, meticulous about his appearance, and always keen to project the image of a rising star in the Bexar County Planning Department.
I didn’t immediately reach for makeup. Instead, I took three more high-resolution photos with my phone, positioning the camera so that the imprints of his fingers were visible on my jawline, and sent them to a newly created, encrypted email address. I deleted the sent files immediately. My hands were trembling, but my pulse was ice-cold.
“He knows exactly why we chose her.”
Beatrice’s words from the midnight phone call echoed in my ears like the wail of a siren. They hadn’t married me off out of affection. To them, a peasant girl from San Antonio with modest savings and a quiet nature was no asset to the family; I was prey. A targeted object.
On the ground floor, the scent of hazelnut coffee and crispy bacon wafted through the travertine hallway. Beatrice sat at the head of the breakfast table, wearing a beige cashmere cardigan and reading the local newspaper.
“Good morning, Anna,” she said in a calm voice, free from the poison of the previous night. “You overslept. Breakfast is cleared away at eight o’clock here. Sit down. Richard has already gone to the town hall.”
I stood in the doorway and refused to sit in the chair where Richard had beaten me twelve hours earlier. “I’m not hungry.”
Beatrice folded her newspaper with deliberate slowness. Her gaze drifted to my swollen cheek. There was neither regret nor embarrassment in her eyes – only a cold, scrutinizing assessment, like a horse trader examining a bruised flank.
“I see Richard had to reprimand you last night,” she murmured, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s unfortunate, but young men from proud families have little tolerance for disobedience. If you want peace, my boy, you must learn respect. Come here now. We have some paperwork to discuss before the weekend.”
“Paperwork?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm to hide the storm brewing inside me.
“Your father’s property on the southern county border,” Beatrice said calmly, pointing to a Manila binder next to her silver butter dish. “Richard’s company is currently exploring options for regional rezoning of agricultural land. We need to consolidate certain property titles within the family trust to protect your parents from rising property taxes. You’ll bring your father with you tomorrow so he can sign the transfer documents.”
The room seemed to tilt. My parents’ farm. 120 hectares of limestone soil, old pecan trees, and access to an aquifer that my great-grandfather had acquired with blood, sweat, and tears.
“My parents don’t need tax protection,” I said cautiously. “Our land is subject to an agricultural tax exemption.”
Beatrice’s smile vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp frown. “You have no idea about the county building codes, Anna. Do as you’re told. Richard worked hard to give your backward family this opportunity. Don’t drive him up the wall twice in two days.”
