With her task completed, relief washes over her face. She hurries down the long hall towards the kitchen.
I close the door with another sigh and head to my walk-in closet.
It’s large enough to be a room in its own right. A large center island holds my basics, jewelry, and underwear. Opposite the island is an elaborate dressing table, over which hangs a back-lit mirror.
The racks hidden behind mahogany panels are loaded with tons of designer clothing. Probably half a million dollars’ worth of the finest fashion the world has to offer.
I’ve hardly worn any of it.
Why bother? I never leave the grounds.
But tonight is different. Something is happening. I don’t like it at all.
I pick a sleeveless vintage Prada dress with a high neckline and slip on a pair of Jimmy Choos with a one-inch wedge.
Before I go downstairs, I step in front of the full-length mirror to make sure I’m dressed for the part. Papa would be furious if I’m anything less than dazzling.
The jade of the dress brings out the tiny flecks of green in my hazel eyes. My dark brown hair cascades in messy waves down my back and my cheeks still retain a little color from my morning run. I add a pair of diamond studded earrings and smear a little nude gloss onto my lips.
And then the transformation is complete.
Abracadabra, presto change-o: the don’s daughter.
His beautiful, caged bird.
It makes me sick to my fucking stomach.
When I’m done, I leave my bedroom and begin the trek to the formal sitting room.
The Moreno household—more like a fortress, really—is a sprawling labyrinth, so it takes me almost five full minutes to get there. I pass tennis courts, swimming pools, several lush gardens, and both kitchens. All filled with the nicest things money can buy.
Drug money, to be specific.
I hear the voices of laughing men when I reach the brass-studded door to the sitting room. I rest my hand on the doorknob, but before I open it, I take a moment to breathe and gather myself.
Cesar’s face from that Paris photograph is still floating behind my eyelids. Laughing, care-free.
I swallow my bitterness down.
Put your “good daughter” mask on, I remind myself, or there will be hell to pay later.
Just like that, I feel my mask settle into place.
Perfect smile, perfect daughter—that’s the motto that keeps me alive.
Papa won’t accept anything less.
I remind myself of who I am—or at least, who I’m expected to be: Esmeralda Moreno, princess of the Moreno cartel, the most eligible bachelorette in the entire Mexican drug world.
Then I push open the heavy door and slip inside.
Immediately, the chatter softens. Eyes turn to me.
Papa’s voice cuts across the room, booming and resonant.
“Ah, Esme! There you are.”
He gets up from his leather armchair and strides towards me, laying his hand on the small of my back and pushing me forward towards his guests as though he’s trying to feed me to the sharks.
To the suited men seated in the other chairs, he says, “Caballeros, meet my daughter, my pride and joy, Esmeralda Moreno.”
Pride and joy. That’s a lie. So misleading it makes me sick.
I can’t even begin to explain how fucked up our relationship is. How fucked up my father himself is.
But you’d never know it by looking at him. That broad smile, that fatherly hand on my back—it’s so fake, so staged that I want to puke.
If only these men knew what it was really like to be Joaquin Moreno’s daughter.
If only anyone knew what he truly is like.
Papa’s guests stare up at me, each darker and slipperier-looking than the last. I trust none of them. Their honeyed smiles are normal enough, but their sharp eyes travel over my body without an ounce of shame.
They introduce themselves to me one by one, offering hands to shake and names I don’t bother trying to remember.
I study their accents with detachment. Colombian, I think. Probably the higher-ups from one of my father’s cocaine suppliers down there.
In other words, it’s business as usual in the Moreno household.
“Esme is a pianist,” Papa announces. He pushes me towards the grand piano over by the curtained windows. “Play something for us, cariña.”
I nod, smile still riveted to my face, and move towards the piano gratefully. Anything to avoid looking at their faces.
It’s easier to breathe when I’m playing. I’m more relaxed in those moments. I can close my eyes and be transported to another place. Somewhere I’m free.
I settle on the piano bench and poise my hands over the keys. I usually play Chopin, but today, I decide instead to perform Mozart. It’s more dramatic, more mournful.
Suits my mood.
My fingers meet the keys. One high, sweet note rises up, blissful and simple. Then the next. And the next. And the next.
I can hear the men’s murmurs but I ignore them. I don’t care if they pay attention or not. If they like it or not.
Because I’m not playing for them.
I’m playing for myself.
For several minutes, my fingers dance across the piano.
For several minutes, I’m free of this ugly cage I’m trapped in.
It ends far too soon.
Don’t forget the mask, I remind myself when I finish. I plaster my good-daughter smile back on my face as I rise and turn to face my father and his colleagues. They applaud. I offer a small curtsy.
“Didn’t I tell you, gentlemen? Isn’t she a marvel?” Papa boasts, turning away from me. “Esme, you may be excused.”
I nod and escape into the hallway. My fingers twitch again as I close the door on the sitting room.
Retreating to my room, I pull off the Prada dress and leave it crumpled on the floor of my closet. I crawl under the silk sheets and try to fall asleep, praying that at least my dreams will transport me somewhere different.
But sleep never comes. I end up staring at the ceiling above my bed for an hour. Maybe I’m just too depressed to dream.
After a while, I give up. I pull back the sheets and get out of bed
