Then I asked, suddenly, without preamble:
“What illness did Zara have?”
The car shifted slightly.
Not from movement, but from attention.
I heard Ramiro adjust his posture, a faint crack of his neck as he turned to glance at me, clearly surprised by the direction of the question.
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
The silence in the car felt different from the one in the dining room.
“Brain tumor,” he said finally, voice lowering into something more respectful. “It started small. No symptoms at first. They only caught it during a routine scan.”
I turned my face slightly toward the window, even though it showed me nothing but darkness beyond the glass.
“They operated to remove it,” he said, his voice tightening slightly. “But within months, it returned—more aggressive each time. It never stopped coming back... six surgeries in all.”
My throat tightened without warning.
Six.
“Eventually,” he said more quietly, “the doctors said further operations were no longer possible. The tumor was growing too fast, too large. They couldn’t keep up with it anymore.”
I swallowed hard.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
Like the air inside had changed density.
“Zara was one of the kindest women I’ve ever known,” Ramiro added after a pause, his voice softening as the professionalism briefly fell away. “It’s difficult... thinking about how long she endured it.”
My chest tightened.
“How long?” I turned toward him sharply, even though I couldn’t see his reaction.
My voice came out more brittle than I intended.
“It was their third wedding anniversary when they found the tumor,” he said after a pause, his voice subdued.
Something in my chest sank at that detail.
“It was like they were granted three beautiful years first,” he continued after a pause, his voice lower now. “Then the tumor was discovered on their third anniversary, and from that pointon it became a different life entirely—hospitals, scans, surgeries, constant treatment.”
His tone softened. “Rafael stayed with her through all of it. Zara fought for another five years after that.”
Five years.
The number repeated in my head like something I couldn’t place.
The words settled into me like weight.
“After Zara died, Rafael swore he would never marry again,” Ramiro said quietly. “He said he would die alone. Their marriage was never built on love, yet he carried her death like it was his fault... no one really understood that. The mafia was shocked when he chose to marry you.”
My breath caught slightly at that.
“But then I understood,” he went on after a pause. “The arrangement makes sense. It’s structured, almost cold... but it works. He married you so you could look after Tess, to be present for her. That’s all it was meant to be.”
