Chapter 20 – Matías
The office is quiet in the way a battlefield is quiet after the last bullet has been fired—still, but never peaceful.
The silence here is deceptive. It hums beneath the crackle of the low-burning fire, buzzes beneath my skin like electricity.
The scent of leather and smoke clings to the walls, thick with the residue of command, decisions, blood.
I stare at the surface of my desk, at the swirl in the grain of the wood where my knuckles cracked against it earlier. The bruise forming under the skin still pulses with dull heat. I hadn’t meant to strike it. I just needed something to hit.
The whiskey burns down my throat, but it doesn’t warm me.
It never does. My body feels cold, even though the fire flickers steadily behind me.
My jacket is discarded over the back of the chair, my sleeves rolled up to my elbows, forearms tense, fingers tight around the glass like it might anchor me.
I should feel victorious. That’s what they expected. That’s what power looks like to them—fear served in silver, cruelty plated with linen. I gave them what they wanted. I delivered a performance worthy of a Castillo.
Then why the fuck does it feel like I’ve been hollowed out?
The radio hisses sharply from the corner of my desk, and I grit my teeth. I reach for it slowly, pressing the button. "Go ahead."
"Patrón," the voice comes, tight with uncertainty. Arturo drilled protocol into them well. They use my title now, even when it tastes wrong in their mouths. "Your wife is attempting to leave her quarters."
My hand tightens around the glass. I set it down with a quiet thunk. "To go where?"
There’s static for a moment—then I hear her. Clear. Commanding. Unafraid.
"You can follow me if you must, but you will not stop me from seeing my own husband."
My jaw clenches.
Husband.
That one word slices through everything.
It rings in my ears louder than her footsteps ever could.
After everything I did, after what I made her watch, she still says it like it means something.
Not with fear. Not with derision. With certainty.
As if she still sees me as that man. As if she still believes I’m hers to face.
I inhale slowly through my nose, the breath scraping past the tightness in my chest. The whiskey hasn’t touched it. Her voice does.
"Let her come," I say quietly. My tone doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. "Bring her to me."
I release the radio and lean back in my chair, staring at the fire as it throws gold light across the bookshelves. I can still feel her words ringing through me, vibrating in the marrow of my bones.
I don’t know what I’ll see when she walks in. I don’t know if she’s coming with fury, with heartbreak, or with something worse. But I know this much:
She called me husband.
And I don’t know if I deserve it. But I want to. God help me, I want to.
She walks into my office like she owns her place in the world.
Not loud, not brash. Just steady. Unshaken.
A woman who should be afraid, who should be breaking under the weight of what I made her witness.
But she isn’t. She stands in the doorway, spine straight, gaze leveled.
Not defiant. Not soft either. Just resolute. It makes something in me tighten.
The guard at her back lingers a beat too long before stepping away. She looks at me like she’s been rehearsing this moment, but nothing about her feels performed. She’s here for something real.
"You let him live," she says. No greeting. No pleasantries. Straight to the marrow. "So let’s talk."
I lean back in my chair, feigning ease. But my hands feel too big for the arms of the chair, my skin too tight across my knuckles. I gesture loosely. "Talk, then."
She steps further inside, stopping only a few feet from my desk.
The same space where, just days ago, she knelt before me, mouth soft and reverent, trying to offer something tender in this cruel world.
I remember the way her fingers curled around my belt.
The way her eyes looked up at me like she was still searching for a man worth trusting.
She doesn’t bring that softness today. But she brings honesty, and somehow, it cuts deeper.
"I need you to know what really happened with Elias," she says quietly. "Because I should have told you before. And that’s on me."
I don’t respond. I don’t move. I let her fill the silence.
"It wasn’t love. It wasn’t betrayal. It wasn’t anything close to what you think. He flirted with me for a few weeks. Nothing unusual. Lots of men flirted with me. You know that. You saw it. Everyone did. That’s part of what I was raised for—to be seen. To be chosen."
She exhales slowly, the weight of the words settling in the air. "I slept with him once. Just once. It wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about anyone. It was about me."
I narrow my eyes. "Convenient timing."
She nods, unflinching. "You think I don’t know how it looks? I do. But it wasn’t a secret. It was the day before the engagement party. The night before Magdalena announced the betrothal. You were there, Matías. You danced with me. Remember that?"
And I do. Fuck, I do. I remember Tomás pulling me aside that night, brushing lint from his sleeve with a smirk, warning me to behave.
"Don’t glare at her too much," he said. "Pretend you’re a gentleman tonight. She’s lovely.
" He was glowing that night. Drunk on attention.
And she—Noa—she wore that lacy maroon dress like a weapon, her smile too poised to be real, her eyes darting everywhere but to me.
I remember thinking how young she looked. How fucking pretty.
I say nothing.
"I made a choice," she continues, voice steady. "I slept with Elias because it was my last night of freedom, and I wanted to feel like I had some say in my own life before everything changed. It wasn’t a love story. It wasn’t even a mistake.
It was a decision. And the next day, I was promised to your brother. "
She pauses, watching me, and I hate that she sees too much. I hate that I almost believe her. That some part of me wants to believe her so badly it makes my teeth ache.
"You can hate me for that," she says. "You can think it’s shameful. But you need to stop pretending this is about Elias. It’s not. It’s about the story you’ve built in your head about me. And I’m telling you now—that story isn’t true."
I sit there, frozen between wanting to strike something and wanting to pull her into my arms just to shut her up. Because she sounds like the only voice that makes sense anymore. And that’s dangerous.
"You think this absolves you?" I ask coldly.
"No," she says. "But I think it should matter."
I stare at her for a long moment, then exhale sharply. "You can’t fix this with words. Or tenderness. Or whatever you thought this would be."
"I know," she replies.
"I’m a leader now, remember?" I snap. "Not just any man. Not a husband who’s going to be regarded as a cuckhold. Not the version of myself you’re still trying to find. I don’t get to show mercy because it feels right. I show strength because it keeps you alive."
Her jaw tightens. "And what keeps you alive, Matías?"
I don’t answer. I don’t know.
She stands there for a moment longer, and I expect another argument. Another plea. But she doesn’t give me either.
She just nods once, slow and sad—a gesture heavy with disappointment. Not anger. Not scorn. Just the quiet, aching grief of someone who thought there was still something left to save between us.
Then she turns and walks out.
And I sit in the silence she leaves behind, wondering why it feels so much louder than anything I said.
The door clicks shut behind her, and the silence that follows is deafening.
I don’t move. I can’t. My body is heavy, like the weight of her disappointment has sunk into the floor and taken root in my bones.
Her scent lingers in the air—that soft, familiar warmth that always clings to my skin long after she’s gone.
It mixes with the scent of smoke and aged whiskey and makes the room feel smaller somehow.
I stare at the door she walked through, as if it might open again. As if she might come back. But she won’t. Not after that.
Her voice still echoes in my head. Not her words, but the way she said them. The softness. The clarity. The refusal to become sharp just because I am. She came here trying to give me something clean, and I handed her blood.
I reach for the decanter again and pour another two fingers of whiskey, the liquid catching the light as it spills into the glass. My hand trembles slightly, just once, and I pretend it’s from fatigue. Not regret. Not shame.
I throw the drink back hard, the burn almost welcome now. I want it to sting. I want it to hurt. It doesn’t.
I look at the fireplace, at the flames dancing low in the hearth, casting flickers across the walls like shadows of the man I was supposed to be. I remember the way she looked at me tonight. Not afraid. Not angry. Just tired. Tired of trying to reach a version of me I buried long ago.
I stand, pushing back from the desk, and cross the room with slow, deliberate steps. The glass is still in my hand. Without thinking, I hurl it at the wall. It explodes in a satisfying shatter, shards catching in the firelight like splinters of a life I don’t know how to hold anymore.
I press my hands to the edge of the desk, bowing my head.
Something inside me is breaking. I can feel it. A slow crack, invisible but seismic. But I won’t name it. Not yet. Because if I do, I’ll have to admit what it means.
And I don’t think I’m ready to.