Chapter 19 – Noa
Arturo’s voice is neutral. Detached. “Your husband wants you at dinner,” he announces.
The words shouldn’t send a chill down my spine. But they do. A deep knot loops in my gut, not from nausea, but from pure, unshakable dread.
I push off the bed, smoothing my palms over my dress, though I don’t remember choosing it. I must have at some point, or maybe Magdalena had something laid out for me. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
Every step through the halls feels like a countdown.
The estate is as hushed as ever, but it hums with the presence of demons and phantoms alike.
A lurking, watching force pressing against my skin.
The chandeliers glimmer, polished floors stretching in endless reflections beneath me.
The servants have melted into the walls, shadows watching from the periphery.
My pulse beats against my ribs, a staccato rhythm, as the double doors to the dining room swing open. For the second time in my life, I step into this room and realize I have made a mistake.
The candles dance, their wax dripping onto polished silver. Wine pools deep and burgundy in intricate crystal glasses. The long mahogany table is set in full arrangement, immaculate plates, linen napkins folded imaginatively. It’s confounding to take it.
But the true shock to my system is still to come.
It takes my looking at the far end of the table to be stricken by it: him, bound to a chair, his head slumped forward, blood dripping onto the floor beneath him—
“Elias,” I gasp, horrified. I stop breathing. My legs threaten to give out under me.
The world tunnels in, narrowing to the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of blood against tile. His clothes are torn, fabric dark and stiff where it clings to him. One of his hands twitches, barely perceptible, a weak movement that does nothing to reassure me.
I press a hand to my stomach, grounding myself against the sickness that rises.
My husband sits at the head of the table like a king on his throne, untouched by the scene before him.
He is reclined, a glass of wine cradled between his fingers, one arm resting along the carved back of his chair.
His suit jacket is gone, sleeves rolled up, an intentional display.
He doesn’t look at Elias. He only looks at me.
“Come, eat, wife,” he invites.
The words land soft, almost affectionate, but they are anything but.
My conscience screams to move, to run, but my body remains frozen in time.
I don’t hear my own breath. I don’t hear anything at all, except for the squeaky scrape of a knife against porcelain, the vacant rustling of fabric as the men seated along the table watch.
Of course, there are others here—men I recognize from the meeting we’d been summoned to, the ones at the cathedral who’d watched me like an animal in their zoo, measured me, determined what kind of wife I would be.
The cartel elders.
One of them smirks, voice dripping with amusement. “Do you know why we let your father live as long as we did, girl?” he asks cheerfully.
I can’t speak.
“Because he knew his place,” he answers himself, picking up his knife, slicing into his steak with an almost lazy precision. “I suggest you learn yours.”
I grip the back of a chair, my nails biting into the wood.
Matías exhales, swirling the wine in his glass.
“I had him fixed up for you, esposa.”
The moniker is a rusted knife he plunges into my chest. Matías’ face – it bears no resemblance to the man for whom I’d been waiting in our bed, recovering from his torrid ravaging of my body, my mind, my very soul…
ready to move forward, now that he’d spent his fury.
How stupid of me, to pretend a beast could be anything but.
Elias groans softly, his body twitching. He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t move beyond the barest flinch of consciousness. I don’t even know if he’s fully aware.
Matías sighs, tilting his head toward me as if I’ve disappointed him.
“Sit.”
My fingers tighten around the chair, my body screaming against me. But I pull it out and sink into it. What other choice do I have?
I sit beside Matías, but everything inside me screams to flee.
If only I had anywhere to go, if only I had a way in the world to get there.
To wake up from this endless nightmare. The chair beneath me is solid, unyielding, but I feel unreal, like I could drift away if I let myself.
A tremor runs through me, my breath unsteady as I struggle to regain my composure.
The lambent candlelight casts shadows across the polished table, but the only thing I can focus on is the rhythmic drip of blood onto the marble floor.
Slow, methodical. A heartbeat outside of my own.
Matías leans in, his breath warm against my ear, sending another violent shiver down my spine. “You’re shaking, esposa.”
I grit my teeth, biting back the bile that threatens to spew. “What have you done?” I beseech mournfully.
He hums, the sound deep and indulgent, as if savoring my unease. He lifts his knife, slicing into his steak with precision, blood seeping from the cut meat, pooling onto his plate. “Nothing,” he says, chewing thoughtfully. He dabs at his mouth with his napkin, the very picture of civility. “Yet.”
A deep, sinking feeling takes hold, unshakable.
The wine glass in front of me is filled to the brim, the deep red liquid reflecting the candlelight in long, rippling patterns. I swallow hard and force myself to look at Elias.
He’s breathing. Barely.
His head is tilted forward, his chin nearly touching his chest, but even from here, I see the damage.
One eye swollen shut, his lip split in two places, blood crusting along the line of his jaw.
His clothes are torn, streaked with red, sticking to his skin.
My throat constricts as I take in the sight of him, the full reality of this moment settling over me like a death shroud.
Matías follows my gaze, and I don’t have to look at him to know he’s watching me closely. He takes another sip of wine, inhumane humor dancing in his dark eyes. “Do you recognize him?”
My silence stretches between us like a live wire.
Matías clicks his tongue, feigning disappointment, and shakes his head.
“That’s rude, Noa,” he muses, swirling the wine in his glass.
“You knew him intimately.” He gestures toward Elias with the tip of his knife, his smirk dark and knowing.
“I think he deserves a proper greeting.”
Tears prick at my eyes. “You’re sick.”
Matías grins as he takes a slow sip of wine, his gaze never leaving mine. He swallows, savoring the moment before speaking. “And you’re still lying to me.”
Elias groans, the sound raw and guttural. His body shifts sluggishly against the restraints, his head lifting with the effort of a dying man gasping for one last breath. The swollen eye barely opens, but it finds me—locks onto me like a desperate tether.
His lips part, voice weak, barely more than a whisper.
"N-Noa..."
I flinch.
His voice shouldn’t affect me. Not now. Not when I’ve spent the last ten minutes convincing myself that I don’t know this man. That I have no reason to feel the sharp stab of guilt piercing through my ribs.
But it does.
It does, and Matías knows it.
He doesn’t even look at Elias. Instead, he swirls the wine in his glass, tilting it lazily between his fingers, watching the deep red liquid stain the inside of the glass like blood.
"Funny thing about betrayal, mi amor." His voice is soft, amused. Dangerous. "It always tastes better when it’s served cold."
My hands tremble beneath the table, curled into the fabric of my dress. I know what he’s doing—know the game he’s playing. But I can’t play this one. Not with a life in the balance.
“Please…” The word barely leaves my lips, but he hears it. He always does.
Matías sets his glass down with a gentle clink, the sound deafening in the tense silence. His fingers trace the steak knife beside his plate, trailing along the polished handle with slow, calculated ease. He doesn’t pick it up—he doesn’t have to. The implication is enough.
“Please, what?” he muses, eyes flicking toward me like he’s humoring the plea.
I don’t breathe. My entire body coils tight, every nerve screaming at me to say the right thing, to find the right words before it’s too late.
“You can’t kill him,” I say, the words firm even as my throat constricts.
Matías tilts his head, the shadow of a smirk ghosting over his lips. "Can’t?"
The knife scrapes against the plate as his fingers toy with it, and my blood turns to ice. The metallic sound slithers through the air, sharp and deliberate.
I force myself not to look at Elias, not to see the blood dried against his temple, the bruises blooming like ink across his skin. Instead, I focus on Matías, on the man I thought I was beginning to understand—the man who had made me laugh, who had made me feel wanted.
“It won’t change anything,” I whisper, forcing the words out before I lose the courage to speak them at all.
Matías exhales slowly, his expression unreadable. "Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong." His voice is smooth, coaxing, but I hear the edge in it—the quiet promise of devastation.
His fingers tighten around the knife, his grip relaxed but purposeful.
“It will change everything.”
Matías moves behind me, his presence like a storm at my back. His hands settle on my shoulders—heavy, possessive, a weight I can’t shake. My breath stills in my throat, every muscle in my body tightening.
He leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, voice a dark whisper. “Tell me, Noa…”
The hair on my arms rises. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
“Is this the man who fucked my wife?”
A violent shudder works its way through me. My throat tightens, my vision blurs. I can feel the eyes of the room on me, waiting, watching. My pulse hammers in my ears, a frantic beat that matches the sheer panic clawing its way up my spine.
I want to scream. I want to fight.
But what’s the point?
Elias coughs again, his breaths ragged. His lips part, his chest rising and falling sharply. “I—I didn’t…”
Matías’ fingers tighten against my shoulders.
“What was that?”
Elias’ body sways slightly in the chair, too weak to hold himself upright. He struggles to speak, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “I—didn’t—”
My stomach drops.
No.
Please, God, no.
Matías chuckles under his breath, his grip on me flexing. He leans in closer, his breath warm against my skin.
“Oh, this is too good.” His voice is soft, mocking. “Lying for her, even now?”
Matías leans back slightly, his gaze sharp as it bores into me. The smirk curling at his lips is slow, deliberate—an artist admiring his own masterpiece.
“Stop it,” I whisper. My voice barely carries over the crackle of the candle flames.
His smirk deepens. “Stop what, esposa?”
His fingers grip my chin, tilting my face up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes. There is no warmth there. No softness. Only possession. A claim so deep it makes my stomach turn.
“I own you, Noa,” he murmurs, voice a blade gliding along my skin.
I exhale sharply, my chest rising and falling too fast. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the scent of blood and wine thick in the air, suffocating.
I don’t recognize the man in front of me.
Or maybe, this is who he always was.
Behind me, Elias sways slightly in his chair. His head lolls forward, too weak to lift it again. His chest rises and falls in uneven, ragged movements. I don’t know if he hears any of this. If he understands what is happening.
Matías exhales, rubbing his jaw like he’s contemplating something mundane. Then, he sighs: “Shame.”
The word is casual, indifferent.
Empty.