The gravel shifted under his shoes—slow, deliberate steps retreating from the grave.
He was done with the humiliating vows he had forced me to repeat before his late wife.
And just like that, I was left behind with them.
I understood, in a quiet, uneasy way, that this was not the end of anything.
Only a beginning I had not agreed to fully see.
Rafael did not do anything without intent. And whatever lay ahead of this marriage—whatever resentment, whatever history between him and my family—was still waiting to unfold.
A thin, uneasy thought pressed in:what else was he capable of?
I swallowed the ache in my throat and forced myself to move.
Slowly, I stood.
The silence around the grave felt heavier without him in it.
I turned toward the sound of his footsteps, orienting myself by what I could hear rather than what I could see, one hand lifting slightly in front of me—not reaching for him, but anchoring myself in his direction.
Carefully, I followed.
The hem of my gown dragged over uneven ground, catching on dust and dry fragments of earth with each cautious step.
I moved slowly, measuring the space I couldn’t see, until the faint outline of the car returned to me in memory more than sight.
My fingers brushed against cold metal.
The vehicle.
I found the edge of the door, traced it down, and opened it.
I climbed in carefully.
The seat swallowed me in smooth leather, and I adjusted my gown as best I could, trying to reclaim some sense of control over something—anything.
Moments later, I heard him settle into the driver’s seat.
The engine roared to life almost immediately—powerful, expensive in a way that made everything else feel temporary.
Then his voice.
Flat. Final.
“Ramiro will bring your things from the apartment.”
A pause.
“My home is now yours.”
Of course it was.
My fingers tightened slightly in my lap.
This was not what marriage was supposed to feel like.
Not that I had ever believed in marriage beyond stories, but still.
