Summer's POV
I narrowed my eyes, waiting for an answer. My mind raced with a thousand possibilities, but none of them explained why this stranger—this infuriatingly smug man—kept calling me Mia.
Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth and controlled.
"Cristóbal."
I blinked.
"That's your name?" I asked, crossing my arms.
He nodded, the smirk never leaving his lips. "Cristóbal Varela."
Spanish. I knew it. But that didn't explain why he had me locked up in this place.
I forced myself to stay calm. "Okay, Cristóbal. You've successfully scared the hell out of me, pissed me off, and confused me all at the same time. Now, can you explain why the fuck I'm here?"
Cristóbal chuckled, shaking his head slightly as if amused by my defiance. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black device, and tossed it toward me. Instinctively, I caught it.
I looked down at the remote-like object, frowning.
"What's this?"
"The key to your room," he said simply.
My breath hitched slightly.
