Fighting for Mine

Thank God the ceremony was brief. When Ángel gave the eulogy, I breathed a sigh of relief that no one asked me to speak. Not that I didn’t want to say anything. Staring out at all those faces—some accusing me of being a terrible daughter while others wondered about the accident—wasn’t something I could do. Not that day.

The one person who had all the details didn’t care. He didn’t even stick around after the incident. Thankfully, the selfish prick was absent.

Mumbled voices garnered my attention. People began pointing. Even the priest stopped speaking and glanced up from his Bible. I turned toward the source of the distraction.

Damn, I spoke too soon.

Chance Hanlon, the cause of my misery, attempted to sneak in unnoticed. A few well-meaning individuals blocked his path. Ángel sneered while my other brothers rose to their feet.

Breathing became difficult, and my chest hurt.

Ten years had passed since I last saw him, but my traitorous heart skipped a beat. He was a hot man in a suit and tie. His garments clung to his body like doing so was vital to their existence. Why did he come?

Chance’s steel-blue eyes scanned the crowd and then landed on me. A flush crept across his cheeks, and the corners of his mouth had an almost imperceptible twitch. But the man didn’t flinch. He didn’t show any sign that seeing me moved him. I, however, practically fell off my chair.

“Mija?”

The words wouldn’t come. Mama grasped my hand. At some point, Ángel left the podium and stood beside us.