I tried to discreetly throw a small pill through the open window, but my aim was off, and it hit the glass pane with a resonating bang.

“Seño,” sighed Mafer as she turned around. She placed her hand on her cocked hip and furrowed her brow in a failed, yet adorable attempt to look intimidating.

“Emilia,” I mumbled, scraping my fork on the edge of my half-full plate. “You need to call me Emilia.”

I’d asked her to call me by my new name so that I would get used to it, and gain the habit of turning around whenever I heard someone call it out. If she couldn’t remember it, how in Hell was I supposed to do so myself?

“Sorry, Emilia,” she said, and gently scratched the back of my head. “At least take the antibiotics, please, and try to eat a bit of the steak.”

“I’ve had steak for lunch and breakfast.”

“It’s the doctor’s orders, Emilia,” Mafer pleaded. “Mr. Juarez has been calling the kitchen all day to make sure they remember.”

“I don’t want it,” I hissed, as I flicked another pill off the table, sending it flying across the room. If I was going to be treated like a child, I might as well act like one.

“Just take the antibiotics,” she bargained. “Leave the painkillers and the iron supplements, and I’ll tell Mr. Juarez you took them if he asks. But I don’t want your arm to get infected.”

“Promise you won’t tell?”

“Of course,” she answered. “Pinky promise.”

Her skinny finger tangled around mine. I nodded, and swallowed the little white pill with a glass of water. Mafer swept the other ones off of the vanity, and chucked them over her shoulder and out the window.

“Thank you,” I said, and I smiled, prompting Mafer to stab me in the cheek with her fingertip.

“I love your dimples,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling in awe.

I leaned my head onto her soft hand. Mafer had spent the whole day with me, repeatedly checking my temperature, making sure I remembered my new name, and helping me pick out an appropriate dress to meet with Pablo’s closest friends.

The women who came to this house had left an alarming amount of clothes behind, however, most of them were too tacky and skimpy for me to wear. We had settled on a flowy, emerald green dress that fell just under the knee, with long sleeves that would hide my bandages. It was modest yet elegant, and its color went well with my new hair.

I couldn’t stop staring at my reflection in the mirror. The more I looked at it, the less familiar it seemed. Emilia was still a stranger to me. I didn’t know anything about her, yet she had to have a story. She had a childhood, some friends, and a family, but when I tried to picture them, my imagination failed me.

I prayed that people wouldn’t ask too many questions. Worst case scenario, I’d come up with an answer on the spot. I’d keep it short and vague, because I was a terrible liar, and when people would inevitably begin to doubt me, I would just add another layer.

But the one question that I could not find an answer to, and probably never would, was why on Earth would Emilia willingly date a man like Pablo.

“What do I do if he tries to kiss me?” I asked Mafer. “I don’t know if I could handle it while I’m sober.”

“I don’t think he would do that,” she giggled. “It’s not like him. You should have seen him yesterday, when we had to undress you. All of a sudden, he acted so embarrassed and... almost defensive. And then he just ran out of the room.”

“I can’t decide if that’s sweet or really weird,” I chuckled uncomfortably.

“He’s a strange man, but he has his boundaries, I think.” Mafer smiled. “You’ll tell me how it went when I come back from my weekend off.”

“I’m going to miss you,” I whined.

“It’s only three days, I’m sure you’ll be okay,” she giggled. “It’s almost eight o’clock. The guests will be arriving soon. You should head downstairs, Seño.”

“Emilia,” I corrected her with a desperate sigh. “It’s Emilia.”

•••

Like an omen to the catastrophic night ahead of us, Beto Arias was the first person I saw as I walked through the door.

The gathering was to be held in a pretty living room on the second floor. Between its grandiose white and gold walls were Beto, Pablo, and a curly-haired man, who was leaning over the back of an antique couch with embroidered cushions. A young maid also stood in a corner, cowering behind a tray of champagne flutes. Her uniform matched the sofas, and she was as still and quiet as a piece of furniture.

Beto looked less like a creep than the time I’d met him at the gas station, and more like your average businessman. The little hair he had left on top of his head was neatly slicked back, and his shirt didn’t have any sweat stains under his armpits. Yet.

“Hello, Emilia,” he said.

When Pablo heard the name, he turned around with a beaming grin. He walked towards me with his arms wide open, and wrapped me in a tight embrace.

“Gordita, you came! God, look at you! You’re so pretty,” he cheered. “I didn’t even realize you’d look this beautiful as a brunette.”

“Thank you,” I answered, a little out of breath. “And you look good... in a suit.”

Pablo grinned as he readjusted the collar of his shirt, which only had two buttons open instead of the usual four, and he placed his warm hand on my shoulder.

“Emilia, you’ve met Beto right?” he asked, and both of us answered him with a formal nod.

The man with the curly hair walked over to us, and now that I could see him better, I noticed he seemed like a chubbier, slightly younger version of my so-called boyfriend.

“This is my little brother, Oscar,” said Pablo. “As you can see, I’m the one who got all the good genes.”

“So nice to finally meet you, Emilia,” he grinned.

Oscar leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek, and I took a nervous step back.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just how we greet people here. I forgot you were American.”

Oscar’s slip-up earned him a silent glare from Pablo, and almost made me faint with stress. Thankfully, everyone else in the room was well aware of my fake identity–but if I had to watch out for other people’s mistakes as well as mine, this cruel game would be over for me before it even started.

“Hungarian,” I corrected him with a polite smile. “Not American.”

Pablo gave me a proud smile, which was cut short by his little brother’s attempt to bully me.

“How do people greet each other in Hungary?” chuckled Oscar.

“No fucking idea,” I hissed, and Pablo quietly elbowed me in the ribs.

“Guys, this is going terribly,” he muttered. “Y’all better get your shit together before the Sandovals get here.”

“I’m going to need a drink,” I mumbled, darting for the champagne in the opposite corner of the room. Pablo grabbed me by the arm and held me back.

“Don’t be rude, wait until everybody’s here,” he whispered. “Also, you’re only allowed one glass. Alcohol doesn’t mix well with your medication.”

I was about to protest, but two men I’d never met walked into the room. Both of them were nicely dressed in tailored suits, and they filled the room with their presence and their loud bickering. They had similar features, and a thirty-year age gap between them. Father and son, I supposed, and I was pretty certain that I already knew their name.

“Here’s the old fart!” Pablo guffawed as he walked over to the older one. “Emilia, meet the one and only Hernan Sandoval.”

Hernan made Pablo seem like a sweet dream. At first glance, he looked normal, with his high hairline, frameless glasses, and with the way his shirt stretched over his happy stomach. But he had a frigid smile, and a steel-gray gaze that could freeze you into place.

“Is this your new pet?” asked the man, eyeing me from head to toe. “Pretty little bird.”

He stepped forward to kiss me on the cheek. His skin was cold and sticky, and his breath somehow smelled like a mix of freshly-cut grass and gasoline.

“Girlfriend,” Pablo growled with a wide, yet fake grin. “She’s my girlfriend.”

His fingers dug ever so slightly into my ribs, discreetly pulling me away from Hernan. The tension in the room was growing, strong enough that you could feel it, like sweat on your skin. I squeezed my hands together to stop them from trembling, and desperately tried to control my breathing. Inhale, hold, count to four, exhale.

“Now his son, he’s the real phenomenon,” chaffed Pablo as he punched the younger guy in the sides with his free hand. “This is Juan Sandoval, my favorite person in the whole wide world.”

“Good evening Emilia,” said Juan with a boyish grin.

I held my breath and accidentally counted to eight. Juan was tall and skinny, and quite good-looking. His tanned skin was smooth and flawless, his hair was neatly styled, and the stubble on his chin well-kempt. His eyes shined with a mischievous glint.

His eyes. They were mesmerizing. They were so dark, that you couldn’t tell apart the pupil from the iris. They sucked me in like a black hole, and I was rendered speechless.

“I’m glad to finally meet someone my age,” added Juan, in an attempt to fill in the silent hole I’d dug.

Juan seemed just a little older than I was. Late twenties, maybe. Was this comment a jab at my unlikely relationship with Pablo, or was he suggesting that our respective legal guardians take us two on a playdate? Was he high? Were his pupils just really dilated? Or did Juan Sandoval just have the most fascinating eyes I’d even been met with? After a few seconds of overthinking and awkward silence, Juan let out a haughty chuckle.

“She’s a bit shy,” laughed Pablo, as he nudged me on the shoulder.

“It’s okay.” Juan smirked, his deep, black eyes still riveted on me. “I often have that effect on women.”

“Leave the poor girl alone,” Pablo chuckled, pulling me closer to him and away from Juan’s hypnotizing gaze. “Hey– has anyone heard from Gustavo yet?”

“He was behind us on the road, but that was a while ago,” sighed Hernan. “You know how he drives.”

“He’s like a little grandma. He’s so cute,” sneered Juan as he grabbed himself a champagne flute and gobbled down a couple of smoked salmon canapés.

“He’d probably go faster with a set of pedals,” joked Pablo.

The men in the room erupted in loud, virile laughter, as if he had just said the funniest thing ever. I glanced at the door, trying to avoid looking at anyone in the room, and wondering if I could maybe sneak out before it was too late.

The men chattered meaninglessly, and I mulled over my fate, progressively hiking up my anxiety. Pablo let me crush his fingers like a stress ball, but it did nothing to stop my downward spiral. I stared at the ground, at the grandiose crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, at a piece of salmon stuck on Juan Sandoval’s thumb. But I avoided the faces, their interrogating gazes, and the dozens of questions they might want to ask, and to which I wouldn’t have an answer.

Someone else arrived and broke my self-made bubble of unbearable tension. He was a short, fifty-something-year-old guy with a huge smile, who walked in with his hands in the air and shuffled straight toward me.

“Emilia!” he cheered, as he gave me a warm hug. “I’m Gustavo Hernandez, Head of Security. I’ve heard so much about you.”

I smiled nervously as an only answer, and looked up to Pablo for any kind of help or cue.

“Only the good things, don’t worry,” laughed the man. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“Well, since we’re all here now, I’d like to introduce you all to my beautiful girlfriend Emilia,” said Pablo. He snapped his fingers at the maid. ”Champagne, por favor.”

The young girl, who struggled to balance all the glasses on a single tray, moved slowly. Way too slow for my taste, since I just wanted to grab a drink, down it, and leave this room as fast as possible.

All eyes were on me, and I wished I could be invisible again. The arrogant-looking Juan Sandoval was licking cream off of his fingers, trying to make me stare at him one more time. His father Hernan was calculating, scanning me up and down with his peering eyes, trying to figure out where I fit amidst his rivalry with Pablo.

Beto Arias was probably thinking of how different I looked from that day when he saw me at a gas station and he decided I was the right person to shove in a car and ship away. I wonder if he regretted it, now that I was here, and that a single misstep of mine could send his operations tumbling down.

Oscar and I exchanged awkward smiles and worried glances, wondering which one of us would be the first one to say something stupid and blow off my cover. Pablo, with his arm still wrapped around me, glared back and forth at his brother and me, silently begging us to keep quiet.

“To Emilia,” cheered the men together, wringing a weak smile out of my red, flushed face.

“Welcome to the family, Emilia,” added Gustavo. “We hope you’re here to stay.”

“Any first words?” asked Juan with a malicious grin.

I babbled confusedly for a few seconds, my chest bursting with panicked heartbeats and out-of-control breaths. My eyes swept the room from left to right, and my head began spinning in circles in the other direction. Two weeks of solitary confinement had rendered my barely-existing social skills completely useless.

I was seconds away from fainting, when Pablo’s fingers tenderly brushed against the clammy palm of my hand. His smile was kind and his gaze so tender, he brought my beating heart back to a steady pace.

I could do it. I was clever, I was witty, or at least that’s what he saw in me. All I had to do was say something funny, make a good impression, and I could head off to bed within the next thirty minutes. Pablo would be proud, I would be relieved, everyone would be happy, and no one would ask any questions.

“Thank you.” I smiled, raised my glass, and tried not to stutter. “Uhh... So– which one is the Jungle Jew?”

My words hung in the air like a dropping bomb. The pause was brief, but mind-numbingly silent. Fuck, I thought. Did I say something wrong?

Then the room burst out in hilarity. It was an explosion of screeching, howling laughs, as if someone had thrown a banana at a horde of starving monkeys. All the men laughed, except Juan Sandoval, who stood frozen and wide-eyed, as his face turned bright red.

Gustavo doubled over, Beto threw his head back, Oscar gasped for air and Hernan gave his son a bullish slap in the back. They turned their attention away from me, and diverted it toward Juan, who they fondly bullied as they remembered their wild night in the house of the Moon God. Pablo smooched me passionately on the side of the head.

“You have no idea how much I fucking love you,” he gloated, his sparkling eyes lost in mine. “That was amazing.”

I made the most of the following few minutes to take a deep breath, and slide out of the spotlight while the men were distracted. I hid in the corner between the maid and the table with all the canapés.

Soon I was fully focused on the trays of delicious-looking toasts. I was happily surprised by the caviar ones, and almost burned my tongue off with the ones covered in red paste, but I guzzled down the salmon canapés like my life depended on it.

“Thank you,” whispered a deep, honeyed voice in my ear.

I jumped and turned around, to once again face the dreadful dark eyes of Juan Sandoval.

“For reminding them of the Jungle Jew,” he continued. “Now they won’t leave me alone for like, at least a year.”

“I’m sorry,” I winced. I took a discreet step back. Juan had me cornered between the wall and the buffet.

“It’s okay,” he chuckled. He gave me a warm smile, and suddenly he seemed humble and friendly. “So, how have you been liking this place? You’re not from here, are you?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said politely. “And no, I’m not from here. I’m from Hungary”

“No way! Really?” His face lit up.

“Yeah, from Budapest,” I squeaked.

"Örvendek a találkozásnak, a nevem Juan,” he said with a proud grin.

Blood drained from my face in a fraction of a second, and I had to hold myself onto the table to stop myself from falling backward.

“What?” I stammered.

“Fuck, is my pronunciation that bad?” he spluttered, and bit his plump lip. “Sorry, I haven’t spoken Hungarian in a while.”

I put down my glass of champagne before it shattered under the pressure of my tensed fists.

“No, it’s... it’s great,” I quavered. “I just wasn’t expecting to meet someone who speaks Hungarian.”

“Oh, well, I studied at Corvinus in Budapest for a few years. Got an MBA in Business Administration,” he boasted. “I got to learn a little bit of Hungarian while I was there. It’s cool that I’ve got someone to practice with.”

Doesn’t the BA in MBA already mean Business Administration? And more importantly, how on Earth did I find myself in a small room with the only moron who has ever attempted to learn Hungarian? Was this a sick joke? What kind of clusterfuck did I let Pablo drag me into?

“Well–I don’t really speak Hungarian. Sorry.”

“Really?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Quick Sarah. I mean– Emilia. Make up a lie. A good one. A solid one. One that’s easy to remember so you can give the same excuse next time someone asks.

“Yeah. I never really lived there. I grew up in... New York. My dad is a diplomat.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” he pouted. “What did you say your name was again?”

Please Juan, please don’t tell me you know every single Hungarian diplomat based in New York City.

“Emilia,” I answered. “Emilia Kovács.”

“It’s pronounced Ko-vatch,” he corrected. “Not Ko-vacks.”

This is terrible. Catastrophic. Cataclysmic. I’m dying. I’m dead. Pablo’s going to kill me. Sirens were going off in my head, blaring loud enough that they drowned out the sounds of conversations in the room.

For a second, hiding under the table and never coming out seemed like the best course of action. But then Juan and his beady eyes would probably crawl in behind me and keep on tormenting me with a trivia quiz about Hungary.

“Why wouldn’t you learn your native language?” he asked, with an unconcealed tinge of disappointment in his voice.

“It’s just not very useful, is it?” I mumbled, my eyes scouting the room in search of Pablo. I desperately needed an intervention.

“Are you telling me I’ve wasted four years of my life trying to learn Hungarian?” whined Juan.

“Hey, Juan–” I sighed, “I’ve just remembered something really, really important I meant to ask Pablo. Can you give me a minute?”

He nodded and stepped aside. I scuttered away, but no matter how frantically I searched for him, I couldn’t find the culprit of this disastrous situation. I approached his brother instead.

“Oscar,” I seethed, grabbing him by the elbow. “Have you seen Pablo?”

“Sorry Em, he’s on an important call,” he answered. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Trust me, this is more important.”

“Okay,” he gulped. “He’s just outside.”

Oscar opened the door to a small patio, and grabbed my hand as he walked me out. Pablo must have noticed the look on my face, whether it was rage or sheer panic, because he immediately hung up his phone without so much as a goodbye.

“Pablo, are you setting me up?” I screamed. “Is this a fucking joke?”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Just a minute ago, everybody was telling me how much they like you.”

"Everything is wrong, Pablo, how could you do this to me?” I hissed.

If Pablo wasn’t holding my hands, I would have already wrapped them around his neck.

“What happened?”

“Don’t lie to me,” I scoffed, “you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Listen, Gordita, whatever this is about, it isn’t the time, we’ll talk about this late–”

“Fuck no, Pablo,” I spat. “Why didn’t you tell me Juan speaks fluent Hungarian?”

Something clicked in his head, but he didn’t seem to panic

“Ah, so that’s where I got the contact in the Embassy. Don’t worry. Juan’s not fluent, Gordita, he just knows a few words,” shrugged Pablo. “Just speak gibberish and tell him you have a strong accent or something. He’ll believe you. He’s really stupid.”

“Juan’s the contact in the Embassy?”

“No, some guy Juan studied with is the contact in the embassy. Juan is my godson.”

Is this a fever dream, or is Pablo really this fucking stupid? Am I drunk on my single glass of champagne? Or is it just him?

“Pablo, are you high?”

“When isn’t he high?” giggled Oscar, who was still standing by the door.

“Go back inside, you dumbass,” retorted Pablo. “This is a private conversation.”

“Pablo, please tell me Juan knew about the whole thing,” I breathed.

“No,” he frowned. “I love Juan but I’d never tell him. Hernan would kill me if he found out about all the ransoming and hostage bullshit we’ve been doing without him.”

My legs started to falter, and I began to hyperventilate. This was a cruel joke, it had to be. Pablo wasn’t just bothering me anymore. At this point, it was outright torture. Tears filled my eyes, and Pablo held me back when I almost tumbled backwards.

“No, no, no, don’t cry,” he comforted me, gently stroking my head as he held it against his chest. “It’s alright, Gordita. You’re doing great. Juan is dumb as a rock. Just stay away from him. Stick with me. You’ll be fine, okay?”

“You did this on purpose,” I seethed.

“I swear I didn’t. You know that I’m not great at remembering certain important things,” Pablo chuckled nervously. “Listen, just stick with me, and if he bothers you again, I’ll tell him to fuck off, alright?”

I agreed, but Pablo’s plan once again turned out to be terrible. It only took a couple of minutes of me being back in the living room for the black-eyed bully to come and bother me again.

“Hey Emilia Ko-vacks,” said Juan with an exaggerated American accent. “Tell me, does your father support Orbán?”

What the hell is an Orbán? Am I supposed to know what my hypothetical Hungarian diplomat father thinks of Orbán? Pablo, who was deep into a conversation with Beto and Gustavo, didn’t even seem to notice the predicament I was in.

“Viktor Orban,” repeated Juan, reacting to my visible confusion, “The Prime Minister. Does he support him?”

“Uhh...” I hesitated, wide-eyed and once again cornered by the Sandoval Inquisition, “Yeah.”

“Wow,” scowled Juan. “That’s fucked up. And honestly quite surprising that a nationalist wouldn’t promote learning their own language.”

“Why are you asking so many questions?” I hissed.

“Hey, Juan?” Pablo finally intervened. “Just fuck off now.”

“Alright,” he shrugged, and walked away.

But temporary peace wasn’t enough. I couldn’t let any of these men continue to drag me down deeper in this disastrous scheme.

“I can’t do this, Pablo, I need to leave,” I whispered.

“Go to bed, Gordita, you need to rest anyway. I’ll handle Juan,” answered Pablo, as he grabbed me by the hand and walked me to the door.

“What are you going to do?” I breathed, trying to keep my voice low and out of earshot of the Sandoval’s bodyguards who were standing in the corridor.

“I’ll tell him the truth,” he shrugged, “that you’re estranged from your family and you don’t like talking about them. It’s okay, Gordita. He won’t judge.”

Great. My new identity also has daddy issues. I sighed, and rolled my eyes. I was aching to walk up the staircase and away from this nightmare.

“Good night, Emilia,” sang Pablo from the bottom of the steps. “I love you.”

“Fuck you, Pablo,” I groaned. “I fucking hate you.”

“You’ll come around,” he purred as I stomped away.

I hated it. I hated it because he was right. I hated it because I knew how his arms reeled me into a false sense of safety. Because I knew that with the right words, the right look or the right smile, he knew how to make me feel alright. Because no matter how angry he made me, it never took more than a few minutes and a dimpled smile to calm me down. Because out of the few options I had in life, he was starting to seem like the best one.

Pablo had me trapped, in more ways than one. I had no choice but to stay with him and listen, to smile at the audience when he called me his girlfriend, and to trust him as he played with my life.

And one day, I’d come around. I’d forget why I hated Pablo, and I’d fool myself into thinking I’m in love. It would take a few years, perhaps just a few months, or maybe that was the way it already was.

I got to the top of the stairs, and glanced over the banister to see if Pablo was still there, but he was gone. Instead, all I saw was Juan Sandoval, standing alone in the middle of the marble hall, looking up at me. Even in the echoing silence, I could hear his questions, and feel his doubt. His deep, dark eyes pierced through my skin even when I was three stories above.

It was still a long way down before I hit rock bottom.

A Warm Welcome

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