When he pulls back to look at me, there is a sheen of moisture in his eyes. “We are so glad to see you,” he says in a low, deep voice, and I smile up at him through my own veil of tears.

“Me too, Dad. Me too. I really missed you and Mom.”

As soon as I say that, I remember that I’m not alone. Turning, I see that my mom is looking at Rosa and Julian, her smile now stiff and unnatural.

I take a deep breath to prepare myself. “Mom, Dad, you already know Julian. And this is Rosa Martinez. She’s my best friend on the estate.” I invited Lucas to join us for dinner as well, but he refused, explaining that he’s part of the security detail tonight and needs to remain outside.

My mom nods cautiously at Julian. Then her smile warms a fraction as she looks at my friend. “It’s nice to meet you, Rosa. Nora told us all about you. Please, come in.”

She steps back to welcome them, and Rosa walks in, smiling uncertainly. She’s followed by Julian, who strolls in looking as cool and confident as ever.

“Gabriela. It’s so good to see you.” Giving my mom a dazzling smile, my former captor leans down to brush his lips against her cheek in a European gesture. When he straightens, she looks flushed, like a schoolgirl with her first crush. Leaving her to recover, Julian turns his attention to my dad. “It’s a pleasure meeting you in person, Tony,” he says, extending his hand.

“Likewise,” my dad says, his jaw tight as he takes Julian’s proffered hand in a white-knuckled handshake. “I’m glad you were finally able to make it out here.”

“Yes, so am I,” Julian says smoothly, releasing my dad’s hand. I notice red finger marks on his hand where my dad purposefully squeezed too hard, and my heart skips a beat. However, when I sneak a glance at my dad’s hand, I realize with relief that there’s no corresponding damage there.

Julian must’ve forgiven my dad this small act of aggression—or at least I’m hoping that’s the case.

As we walk toward the dining room, I steal covert looks at my husband’s handsome profile. Having my former captor in my childhood home is beyond strange. I’m used to being with him in exotic, foreign locations, not Oak Lawn, Illinois. Seeing Julian in my parents’ house is a bit like encountering a wild tiger in a suburban mall—it’s bizarre in a scary way.

“Oh, honey, you’re so thin,” my mom exclaims, eyeing me critically as we enter the dining room. “I knew you wouldn’t start rounding out with the baby yet, but you look like you’ve lost weight.”

“I know,” Julian says, placing a hand on my lower back. His touch both warms and discomfits me, coming as it does in front of my parents. “With the nausea, it’s been tough getting her to eat well. At least she stopped losing weight. You should’ve seen her four weeks ago.”

“Was it really bad, honey?” my mom asks sympathetically when we stop in front of the table. She’s keeping her eyes on my face, clearly determined to ignore Julian’s possessive gesture. My dad, however, grits his teeth so hard I can practically hear the grinding noise.

“It got better once we learned that I’m pregnant. I started eating plainer foods at regular intervals, and it seemed to help,” I explain, flushing. It’s odd to talk about my pregnancy in front of my dad. We had danced around the issue during our video chats, with Dad gruffly asking after my health and me brushing off his inquiries. I know he hates the fact that I’m pregnant at my age, and despises the whole situation with Julian. My mom probably feels the same, but she’s much more diplomatic about it.

“I hope you can eat tonight,” my mom says worriedly. “Your dad and I prepared a lot of food.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage, Mom.” Smiling, I sit down in the chair Julian pulls out for me. “Everything looks delicious.”

And it’s true. My parents have outdone themselves. The table has everything from my dad’s rosemary chicken—a recipe he only uses for special occasions—to my grandmother’s tamales and my favorite dish of roasted lamb chops. It’s a feast, and my stomach growls in appreciation at the delicious smells emanating from the glass-covered platters.

Julian takes a seat to the left of me, and Mom and Dad sit down across from us.

“Come, sit next to me on this side,” I tell Rosa, patting the empty chair to my right. I can see my friend still doesn’t feel comfortable, convinced she’s somehow imposing. Her usual bright smile is uncertain and a bit shy as she sits down next to me, smoothing her palms over the front of her blue dress.

“This table is amazing, Mrs. Leston,” she says in her softly accented voice.

“Oh, thank you, sweetheart.” My mom beams at her. “Your English is so good. Where did you learn to speak like that? Nora told me you’ve never been to the US before.”

“No, I haven’t.” Looking pleased at the compliment, Rosa explains how Julian’s mother taught her American English when she was a child. My parents listen to her story with interest, asking a number of follow-up questions, and I use this opportunity to excuse myself to visit the restroom.

When I return a few minutes later, the atmosphere at the table is thick with tension. The only person who appears at ease is Julian, who’s leaning back in his chair and regarding my parents with an inscrutable gaze. My dad is visibly bristling, and my mom has her hand on his elbow in a classic calming gesture. Poor Rosa looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.