Chapter 21
Later the same morning…
I’ve been in this house for two days. Two days of watching, listening, and keeping my head down. Tonight, they're planning a big dinner, something grand and dripping with power games I don’t understand. All I know is, I’m being dressed like a doll for it.
The vanity table in my room is littered with makeup, brushes, and compacts.
I’m halfway through applying a layer of powder when the door opens without a knock.
Donna Margarita sweeps in like she always does, taking all the oxygen out of the room.
She doesn’t ask permission before taking my chin in her cool, ring-heavy hand and tilting my face toward the light.
Her sharp eyes scan me like I’m an asset in need of repair. "You need more concealer here," she says, tapping the hollow just under my jaw where Roberto’s thumbprint still blooms faintly. "Those bruises won’t do."
A spark of aggravation flares in my chest, but I swallow it down. I’ve learned too much in the last two days to let it show. Donna Margarita is more than Roberto’s grandmother. Even here, in Venezuela, she wields power like a blade. And people bend to it.
I saw it on my first day, when Don Aurelio himself came to greet her. He stood there like a king on his marble floor, eyes hard as flint. "So, you’re the woman my father speaks so highly of," he said, voice dripping with disbelief. "You’re nothing but an old, shriveled lady."
Margarita smiled—slow, amused, unbothered—and tilted her head like she was deciding whether to pet him or strike him.
"My dear boy," she purred, "flowers wilt in the sun, but poison? Poison stays potent for years… and so do secrets." Her gaze sharpened, and she leaned in just slightly, her voice lowered down to a velvet murmur meant only for him. "Especially the kind you thought were buried on Isla Verde."
I didn’t know what Isla Verde was, but I saw her words land like a live grenade. Don Aurelio’s smirk faltered for the briefest second; the muscles in his jaw tightened before he recovered.
The room had gone silent after that, and I’d understood: this was a woman who could survive anything and make you thank her for the privilege of letting you live.
Don Aurelio must have figured out the same thing, because after a beat, he gave her a cool, deliberate smile.
"Old people die with their secrets, Donna Margarita. "
She laughed lightly, as if he’d complimented her instead of trying to warn her.
"Oh, of course, mi querido. It would be foolish for an old woman like me to think I’ll live forever.
" Her gaze swept over him like the edge of a blade.
"Sometimes my memory even fails me…" She reached into her purse and drew out a sleek, black phone, holding it between two perfectly manicured fingers.
"Which is why I keep so many little helpers around the world to remind me.
Photographs. Videos. Transcripts." She tilted the phone just enough for the light to catch on its screen.
"Some memories are worth keeping… safe."
Aurelio’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the only crack in his mask. Whatever she had just alluded to, it landed. "I will pray for your good health then," He conceded.
"You do that," she patted his cheek with a feline-like smile. "You do that."
Now, in my room, her fingers still grip my chin. She applies the extra concealer herself, pressing it into my skin with practiced precision. Then she releases me and glides toward the door.
"Smile tonight, Sophia," she says without turning back. "It’s the only armor you’ll have."
And then she’s gone, leaving me staring at my reflection, wondering if I’m supposed to be the flower… or the poison.
I wait until her footsteps fade down the hall before I rise from the vanity. My back stays straight, chin lifted, the way she drilled into me these past two days, but inside, I’m trembling so hard I feel it in my teeth.
The moment I step into the corridor, voices float up from downstairs, deep, booming, and laced with laughter.
The kind of voices that fill a room without trying.
I drift toward the banister, drawn despite myself.
The front doors are wide open, and a man steps inside.
His posture screams power. He’s older than Aurelio, but still muscularly built, shoulders squared under a tailored jacket, hair silver at the temples.
And he’s flanked by two women, both young, both gorgeous, draped over him like he’s a prize stallion they intend to ride all night.
He spreads his arms as if he’s addressing the entire mansion. "Where is she?" he demands, his voice carrying through marble and stone. "Where is the only woman who ever made Silvestre Valverde weak in the knees?"
This is Silvestre Valverde? Isabella's father?
The women on his arms titter, but his gaze sweeps past them, over the gathering staff and guards, until it lands higher up the stairs.
"Margarita!" he calls, grinning wide enough to show every perfect tooth. "Come show yourself to an old man before my heart gives out."
I don’t see her at first. She must have been waiting in the shadows, watching the scene unfold with that predator’s patience of hers.
Waiting for the perfect moment to make her entrance.
Without a sound, she brushes past me, a whisper of silk and something expensive clinging to her skin, her entrance timed for maximum effect.
She moves to the top of the staircase as if she’s answering the roll call of royalty, her chin tilted, eyes alight with a mix of amusement and disdain.
"Who," she says, in a silky voice, just low enough that everybody needs to strain, "is this brute bellowing my name through the house as though he owns it?"
In the low amber light, she is… perfection. Not a day over forty, though I know she’s almost double that age. And somehow, Silvestre Valverde also doesn’t look a day over fifty; a wolfish grin spreads over bronzed skin. He, too, has to be in his eighties.
The room stills.
"Margarita," Silvestre booms again, that grin never faltering. "Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to make an entrance worthy of me."
Her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. "And don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to arrive without an entourage of giggling ornaments."
The two women at his sides exchange glances, clearly not used to being dismissed so publicly. He only laughs, a deep sound that seems to shake the walls.
"You wound me," he says, but there’s nothing wounded about him. He lets the women go without a second glance, spreading his arms wide as if to receive her. And she indulges him. Slowly, she begins her descent, each step deliberate, her gown pooling and shifting around her like liquid shadow. All queen, all power, all command. She doesn’t even glance at the two young women, who now stand awkwardly by the door, jealousy plain on their faces.
When she reaches him, Silvestre pulls her into an embrace that’s far too familiar and far too lingering for my comfort.
And then, to my horror, he kisses her, deep and indulgent, like a long-lost lover.
There is no doubt in my mind that he's Isabella's father and that the two of them have been lovers for ages.
I feel my stomach turn.
The two discarded women stare, mouths parted in disbelief, as if the scene before them has rewritten the rules of the world they live in.
All I can think is that whatever history these two share, it’s not just history, it’s ammunition.
The kind of weapon that can level empires or start wars with a whisper.
And in my world, being anywhere near that kind of firepower doesn’t make you safe. It makes you a target.
Roberto sidles up to me, making an exaggerated gagging sound under his breath. "My grandma is making a spectacle of herself," he mutters, all mock disgust.
Before I can respond, he slips into his gentleman’s mask, offering me his arm like we’re about to descend into a ballroom scene from some gilded age. His palm rests lightly against my hand, the grip is just firm enough to remind me who’s really in control.
We start down the stairs together, and from a side staircase that leads below, Aurelio appears, flanked by two of his men. He steps forward with that smooth, deliberate stride, his gaze already on Roberto.
"Roberto," Aurelio says with the politeness of a man who never says anything without a reason. "Allow me to introduce my father, Don Silvestre Valverde."
Silvestre's grin widens, and he sweeps an arm toward me. "And who’s this lovely creature?"
Before I can answer, Margarita drifts in beside him like a shadow taking form. Silvestre turns to her with a roguish smile. "Where are my daughters, Margarita? You didn’t keep them from me, did you?"
My gaze darts to Silvestre's laughing green eyes, the same ones I envied on Isabella.
I also notice something else: Margarita is watching Aurelio out of the corner of her eye. Watching the place he just came from. Her smile doesn’t falter, but the smallest crease forms between her brows, a frown she’s too skilled to let anyone else see.
Whatever’s behind the door Aurelio emerged from… she’s already decided it matters.