Raffael helps me out of the car, keeping me close. "We’ll deal with that later," he tells him. "Where is she?"
"Family room. Figured she’d cause less trouble there than in your office."
"Good call."
He glances at me. "You ready?"
I sigh like he just asked me to walk barefoot into a pit of snakes. "I can’t stand that woman."
He smirks. "You and me both." He leads me up the steps, keeping his hand firm at the small of my back.
"Let’s go see what the devil dragged in," he mutters.
The moment we step inside, the air shifts. The house feels colder, tighter, like it, too, is holding its breath. I follow Raffael through the hall toward the family room; my heels click silently against the floor, but every step feels like a thunderclap inside my chest. My fingers curl around the material of my skirt. I don’t know whatDonna Margarita wants, but I’ve learned the hard way: she never makes social visits.
She’s standing by the window, her back to us, gazing out like this is her home and not one she invaded. Her posture is as poised as ever—straight spine, relaxed arms—but there's something off. Something brittle.
"Nice view," she says without turning.
Her voice is cool. As refined as always, but detached. There’s a drag in the words, a subtle exhaustion she doesn’t quite mask. When she finally turns, it hits me. She looks… older. Not her age—she’s always worn that like armor—but tired. Ten years older than the last time I saw her. Her skin is paler, her sharp cheekbones more pronounced. Like something has drained her from the inside.
Her gaze lands on me, and she freezes. Her eyes narrow. Her lip twitches. "What the hell isshedoing here?"
Her tone isn’t just shocked and hostile; it sounds as if I’ve stained the floor just by standing on it. She takes a step forward, her gaze raking down my frame, then back up, sharper than any knife. "Has the grieving widow already—" She stops herself, her head tilts to the side as something dawns in her eyes. Her mouth curls slightly, like she's solved a puzzle she's been working on for weeks. Her attention focuses on Raffael. Then back at me. Then at him again.
"No," she breathes. "Donottell me this is why you were in Caracas."
Her voice goes ice-cold, and for the first time, it’s not superiority I hear beneath it, but utter disbelief mixed with contempt. "Tell me," she says, crossing her arms slowly, "that you didn’t riskeverything,not forher."
I stiffen, but Raffael steps slightly in front of me. Not blocking me. But enough that the message is clear. I’m not alone.
"You don’t talk to her like that. Not in my house. Not ever."
Donna Margarita laughs. Not the elegant kind of laugh she gives at dinner parties. This one is sharp, bitter, and twisted at the edges.
"Oh, this is too much," she says, tossing her hands as she spins away toward the bar cart near the bookshelves. "You’vegotto be kidding me."
But when she turns back, all humor is gone. Her face is pale with fury, her voice suddenly low and tight. She jabs a finger toward Raffael’s chest. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done?"
He doesn’t flinch.
"No," she sneers. "You don’t, do you? You’re just as ignorant as he was. Just as reckless. Thinking this—" her hand waves between us like we’re filth, "—is aboutlove. Aboutfeelings." Her eyes burn with scorn. "You stupid boy."
I bite the inside of my cheek and stay still. Ican’tbe the one to speak right now. Raffael’s status is fragile enoughas it is. If I step in, I’ll make it worse, make it look like I’m the woman pulling his strings.
Even though a part of me wants to claw her eyes out.
Raffael doesn’t take the bait. His arms stay at his sides, and his voice stays low. "Why are you here?"
Donna Margarita doesn’t answer at first. Instead, she pours herself a glass of scotch. Her hand trembles slightly despite her show of control, and she drinks it all in one go, then curses under her breath. Something ugly. She sets the glass down hard enough to crack the silence. "I need to talk tohim," she snaps, glaring at me like I’m a stain on her vision. "Without you."
Raffael moves without hesitation, his arm slides protectively around my waist, pulling me in. "She stays."
The words are quiet. Final.
Her mouth tightens, and something flickers in her eyes, something unreadable. Not quite rage. Not quite grief. But it dies out quickly, replaced by the cool mask she always wears. I try not to show it, but my hands are damp. My breathing is shallow. Every instinct in me is telling me something’s about to shift—something I don’t want to hear. My stomach curls inward, tight and cold. But I don’t move.
I don’t speak. Because if she’s going to break my heart, I’ll at least make her look me in the eye when she does it.
