Chapter 3 – Noa
I wake up alone. It annoys me to feel the complicated chagrin that enfolds within me.
I’d envisioned it before, waking up in a room at the Castillo estate.
I’d parsed through many scenarios of what it would be like, and how I would feel.
Now, with the first traces of morning filtering in through the sheer curtains, casting long shadows across the cold marble floors, I am only stricken by the loneliness of it.
Outside, the world is waking, too—the distant trill of cicadas, the occasional rustle of branches as the wind sighs through the jungle.
But inside this room, it is a crypt.
I exhale slowly, staring up at the ornate ceiling.
I barely remember falling asleep, exhaustion dragging me under sometime in the early hours.
Whether my husband slept peacefully or not, I can’t say; he kept his back to me through the night, never moving so much as an inch.
For me, there’s been no comfort to be found in rest—not when the bed beneath me is unfamiliar, the sheets beside me gone cold to the touch.
Matías is gone.
The realization lands without shock, yet it carves through me, leaving a blade of cutting sorrow wedged deep in my chest. He hadn’t stayed. He hadn’t even made a pretense of it. The mortifying sting of it outdoes the cut he’d engraved into my palm at the altar.
My gaze drifts to the nightstand. The glass of whiskey he had thrown back like a cliché still sits there. His gun does not.
I push myself up, stretching out the stiffness in my limbs.
My muscles ache, though not from anything inflicted upon me.
I had braced for that possibility last night, ready for it if I had to be.
Steeled myself for it. There were many accusations floating around in the spectators at the sham of a wedding ceremony—no matter what they said, I was no fool.
I am not na?ve. In so many ways, I’ve been bred for this: to be prepared for the worst, and know better than to pin any clandestine hopes on more than that.
A part of me bargains it is far from the worst, that Matías, if anything, merely flicked some salt in wounds that had already existed.
It could have been worse. It could have.
And it wasn’t. I should be grateful, if anything.
So, what if he looks at me with such venom?
He’s married to me as an obligation as well.
Unlike Tomás, we’ve never had a chance—or reason, frankly—to get to know one another.
He could have stayed and changed that. He could have held some space for…
No. It doesn’t matter.
Yesterday was chaos. Today is something else entirely. It is a new chapter. I can dwell on the what-if’s and the Before; either will be nothing but a waste of time.
I won’t be a ghost in this house. I won’t be swallowed whole by it.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I plant my feet against the cool marble with a decisive thwack. My wedding dress is gone—someone must have taken it while I slept. Instead, a selection of clothes has been left in a hanging rack by the window.
I eye them warily, then resign myself to crossing the room to sort through the options.
Dresses, I note. Soft fabrics, delicate embroidery. Pretty things for a pretty wife.
I shove them aside with a huffed exhale.
I grab the simplest thing I can find—black leggings, a loose tank top.
Clothes I can move in. Clothes that don’t make me feel like something fragile, like something waiting to be broken.
I pull my hair into a quick, tight braid, securing it at the base of my neck before slipping into my running shoes.
Then I turn to the door.
And stop.
My suitcase is gone.
The breath in my chest locks tight, a slow, curling rage spreading through my ribs. Not just my suitcase—everything. My phone. My wallet. Every last remnant of the life I had before this marriage. Stripped away as if I never existed before this house.
Oh. So, this is how my new husband wants to play it.
An ire I don’t foresee coming surges within me, and I rush towards the door, fingers closing around the handle. I twist it furiously. And… Nothing. It doesn’t budge.
I try again. Harder.
Still nothing.
My pulse spikes, a searing heat unfurling deep in my gut, coiling tighter with every second.
I wrench at the handle again and again, twisting harder, the metal biting into my palm.
I’m ready to rip the damned handle off if I must. My breath comes fast, shallow, as I jiggle it again, then yank with all the force I can muster.
The locked door stays stubbornly in place, unmoving, unyielding, as if mocking my desperation.
A prison, then.
Panic flares. Not rational. Not logical. But visceral. My breath quickens, my pulse roaring in my ears. I yank the handle again, a smothered whine vibrating in my throat this time, my heart slamming against my ribs.
No, no, no—
A sharp knock sounds from the other side.
I lurch away, caught.
Then, the sound of a key turns in the lock. It turns with a quiet click. I step back instinctively, pulse still hammering from the lingering frustration of being caged in.
My fingers curl into my palms as the door eases open.
And then—
A familiar face.
Arturo Quintero stands in the doorway, the morning light catching the streaks of silver in his dark hair.
He’s older now—his face lined in the way of men who have spent years carrying the weight of power, of survival.
But nothing else about him has changed. The same shrewd brown eyes, eerily calculating, always assessing, always knowing more than he says.
The same measured stance, hands resting loosely at his sides, as if he’s never been caught off guard in his life.
A man of logic, not impulse. A strategist, not a soldier.
A ghost.
I inhale sharply, my throat tightening as the past slams into the present.
“Arturo?” My voice comes out quieter than I intend, almost cautious, but the syllables shape something wary between us.
His lips twitch, just slightly—an echo of what might have once been a smile. Only, there’s no warmth behind it, no nostalgia in his expression. “It’s been a while, Noa.”
That it has.
The last time I saw him, he was seated beside Tomás at the head of a long dining table, swirling whiskey in a crystal glass as they debated cartel diplomacy.
He had always been there—Tomás’ shadow, his trusted right hand.
The man I had thought I would work alongside one day, strategizing over negotiations, discussing alliances.
But Tomás is dead.
And Arturo is here.
For Matías.
The realization settles coldly inside me.
When I hadn’t seen him at the wedding—neither the ceremony nor the reception—I’d assumed he’d resigned his post after Tomás’ death.
How stupid of me. Of course he didn’t. Loyalty is available for price tags in this world. My parents have raised me to know this.
There is nothing to do but will the tension out of my spine, forcing my fingers to flex at my sides. “Did Matías send you?” I ask plainly.
Arturo watches me for a beat, then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I sent myself.”
Still, he doesn’t otherwise move.
A flash of memory rises, unbidden.
Of a dinner table. Candlelight twinkling against crystal glass. The low hum of conversation as Tomás swirled his brandy, his gaze sharp as he studied me across the table.
"You see things differently," he had said, his voice tinged with what had sounded eerily close to admiration. "That will make you invaluable as a Castillo."
I had believed him.
I had believed that my voice would have a place in this world, that I would be more than just a bargaining chip, more than just a name attached to a powerful man. I had thought my opinions mattered.
Now, Tomás is dead.
And I am no one.
The past claws at me, whispering its cruel truths, but I push it down, bury it beneath the steel in my spine. I straighten, my chin lifting as I meet Arturo’s gaze. “I assume I’m not allowed to leave my own room?” I don’t know why I bother making it a question. The answer is a foregone conclusion.
Arturo tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes betraying nothing. “You know how this world works,” he replies. It sounds like a confirmation to me. Why does it chafe?
I don’t plan to say the words. Yet, they roll off my tongue, challenging: “Then you know I’m not a flight risk.”
Disquiet reigns, taut as a drawn bowstring, humming with unsaid words and unvoiced defiance. It isn't just an absence of sound: it carries a pulse, a slow-burning dare woven into the pause between breaths. A test hangs in the air, a challenge that is fickle as walking on tightrope.
Without another word, he shifts to the side, the movement deliberate, controlled. His gaze stays on me, inscrutable, yet laden with meaning. “Then go.” The words land with quiet precision—half warning, half promise, laced with an intent I can’t quite decipher.
I don’t pause to analyze it.
My legs carry me forward, past him, through the open door, my feet already having decided precisely where they are headed. Or, at least, for whom they are in pursuit of.
The corridor stretches before me, polished marble reflecting the morning light filtering through tall arched windows.
Outside, the quinta breathes in the smothering humidity left in the wake of last night’s storm, the moisture clinging to the glass panes.
Inside, the Castillo name settles into the bones of this house like an unspoken decree.
Yet the halls aren’t nearly as daunting to walk through as waking up in the strange bedroom had been. I’m familiar with these, haunted as they are.
I barely make it fifteen steps before I feel her.