The stew tasted good, though it wasn’t something she was used to eating. She nibbled on the biscuit she was given, but even that didn’t soothe her jangled nerves. What am I doing here? What have I gotten myself into? Her father must be worried sick. Gustav, their head of security, who her father surely would have called by now, must be ready to tear apart the streets of New York. She should return and apologize to her father. Marisol fingered her cell phone in her pocket. Maybe she could at least call him and let him she was all right. But no. He’d talk her into coming back and she couldn’t. Each time she contemplated that thought the image came to her of Tristan being rude to her, saying those awful things, but what was the absolutely the last stray was him fingering her in her intimate places at the head table while she was sitting next to her father. No. The man was intolerable. She couldn’t marry him, not now.
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