Chapter 18
Ernesto
The leather upholstery of the backseat feels cooler than the humid air in my office had been an hour ago.
Outside, the lights of Los Angeles blur into long, neon streaks, a city of millions of lives vibrating throughout its streets.
Lives I usually view through a tactical lens.
But tonight it all feels different. The phantom weight of Alejandra’s hands on my shoulders, pressed against my body, and the memory of her crawling to me with that fiery defiance in those eyes.
It has a raw, desperate hunger, coming alive inside me. I do not like it.
I watch Felipe’s silhouette in the driver’s seat. He remains silent, eyes fixed on the traffic, but I know he’s thinking about the sounds he had to have heard through the doors to my office before entering. I don’t care, let the world hear how fucking good I make my wife feel.
It’s not the dominance that keeps the scene running through my mind.
I’ve had women submit to me countless times before, but they did it out of fear, greed, or in the intoxicating proximity to the power I hold.
Alejandra is none of those. She didn’t just surrender; she adjusted.
She matched my rhythm, met my gaze head-on, and fueled my aggression with a fire of her own.
It feels unsettlingly natural having her near me, like two jagged gears finding the teeth to turn together. They clash but still work together.
All day, I have tried to convince myself that this feeling is all about control. That she’s just a tool, a contract, a temporary necessity to keep Casimiro’s hands off my father’s legacy. But the way she looks at me after the act–not broken, but glowing– suggests something far more dangerous.
We’re fucking compatible.
The car glides straight into the driveway of my estate, and I don’t wait for Felipe to round the car and open my door.
I step out, the evening air becoming crisp as fall rolls in, carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers.
Inside, the house hums with a quiet intensity.
The staff moves like shadows, finalizing the details for the night’s event.
I bypass the foyer and head straight to the small sitting room, where I knew I’d find the one person I wanted to see the most.
Camilla sits on a low velvet ottoman, her tiny face scrunched up and her tongue out to the side in complete concentration. She’s wearing a dress of vibrant marigold silk, her small hands fumbling with a flower of the same color. Beside her, Consuelo watches with a fond, tired smile.
“Ah, que la princesa, what’s all this?” I speak up, letting her know I’m in front of her.
“Papi!” She yells, scrambling off the ottoman, the marigold she was holding fluttering to the floor. I catch her as she throws herself at me, her small weight the only thing that ever makes me feel anchored to this life.
“You like my poster, papi? It’s for a school project. Ale was helping me get ready before she left. Are you going to the party now?” she asks me with her sweet innocence.
I set her down and kneel before her, the fabric of my suit straining against my thighs, as I pick up the fallen flower. “We are my princess. I’m sorry you can’t go tonight, this is only for grown-ups, but I promise to bring you back some dessert.”
My hands, more accustomed to dealing with bloodbaths and boardrooms, feel clumsy against her soft hair. I carefully tuck the marigold into her braid, securing it with a precision that makes my chest ache. This little girl is my pride and joy, my entire world, and the very air I breathe.
“Is that for me, papi?” she motions to the velvet box in my hand.
“This is for Alejandra, chiquita. Your Tia told me it’s the finishing touch to her outfit.
” I don’t get to show Camilla what’s inside because we hear a soft rustling sound from the top of the grand staircase.
The air in the room seems to thin, sucked out of me by the sudden gravitational pull this woman has on me.
Alejandra descends the stairs with a slow, cautious grace.
The ivory dress she wears makes her tan skin glow as if she’s been basking in the Los Angeles sun.
The silk hugs her every curve as if the fabric itself were in love with her body.
Red florals bloom across the bodice and down the skirt, deep crimson carnations and marigolds embroidered with a craftsmanship that feels almost sacred.
Her dark curls fall in soft, wild spirals over her shoulders, crowned with real roses that mirror the embroidery.
She looks like La Muerte coming to life before my eyes. A goddess of the earth, something ancient and vibrant, stepping out of one of the many murals dedicated to her protection.
Camilla lets out a squeal of delight and runs to the foot of the stairs. “Ale! You look like a flower!”
Alejandra’s face breaks out into that warm and infectious smile that always seems to irritate the hell out of me because of how much I want to keep it to myself. She catches Camilla’s hands and spins her around once.
“And you look like the sun, princess. Flowers can only grow when they’re around the sun, don’t you know?” She tells Camilla.
I approach them slowly, my shoes clicking on the marble floor. My heart was hammering a steady, warning beat against my chest. I need to say something, anything. I need to break this damn spell she’s cast over the room.
“I see you’ve been keeping the custom tailor Veronica recommended busy; he’s making his year's salary on just you two.”
Alejandra’s gaze snaps to mine, the warmth in her eyes cooling into a familiar, sharp challenge. “And I see you’re incapable of giving a simple compliment without sounding like an ass.”
“What’s an ass?” Camilla asks out of the blue.
“It's another name for Donkey, Camilla.” I immediately cover for Alejandra. My eyes are narrowing at her, all while she’s just grinning at me. “The dress is adequate. It’ll be great for the photo ops.”
“Adequate?” She arches a perfectly groomed brow, stepping closer until her scent of vanilla, and something spicy–carnations? –swirls around me. “I’ll remember to try harder next time, sweety. Maybe I’ll choose something neon.”
“No need. We don’t want to blind the donors.” I quip back to her.
I open the velvet box, the rubies inside catching the light. The deep red stones are set against a delicate golden filigree. They look like drops of blood frozen in time.
“Turn around,” I instructed her.
“It’s beautiful, Ernesto.” Her voice is a whisper, a trace of genuine wonder breaking through her armor.
“It’s a Damos heirloom, so do not lose it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She says as she admires the rubies resting on her neck.
Camilla steps between us, taking one of my hands and one of Alejandra’s. “Look! We all match.” Her sweet smile was full of joy.
For a fleeting moment, and a terrifying second, the reflection in the foyer mirror doesn’t show a cartel boss, a mail-order bride, and a motherless child. It depicts a family. The illusion is so potent it makes my throat tight.
“We need to go. The car is waiting.” I say harshly. I pick up Camilla and kiss her goodnight. Alejandra kneels to her height and hugs her, promising they’ll make some cupcakes tomorrow.
The ride to Pershing Square is a blur full of police escorts and flashing lights.
The heart of Los Angeles has been transformed into a sprawling altar of remembrance.
Thousands of people move about the laid-out path full of marigolds.
Alejandra stares out the window in awe, but there’s no time for her mind to wander because the media awaits us at the entrance like wolves.
The moment the door opens, the roar of the crowd hits us inside the car. Cameras were flashing in a way that would have disoriented anyone not used to them. Reporters shout questions over each other, their voices a symphony of greed, for a glimpse of Ernesto Damos and his bride.
Alejandra’s hand finds my arm, her fingers gripping the wool of my jacket with a strength that betrays her nerves. I shift, pulling her closer to my side, shielding her from the most aggressive reporters.
“Stay close,” I lean down to murmur in her ear. “Don’t look at the camera, just focus on me.”
She nods, her eyes wide but fixed on mine. At this moment, she’s putting her entire trust in me. The realization sends a possessive jolt through my body, but right now is not the time to get a boner in front of thousands of people.
We move through the crowd, our security team carving a path before us.
Julian is already in the thick of the party, a glass of tequila in one hand, the other gesturing animatedly as he charms a group of city council members.
He’s the perfect PR weapon. He may be a disaster of a brother, but the way he can neutralize scandals with a single smile before they bloom into something is something I have to admire.
Veronica stands near the hospital sponsorship displays, her poise unshakable. She spots us and gives us a subtle, proud nod. The Damos siblings are a wall, flawless, and untouchable.
The stage looms ahead of us. We’re not late, but I would rather have been here sooner to go over tonight's events, but it’s already time for me to give my speech as the CEO of Sol Industries.
I leave Alejandra at the wings of the stage and step up to the podium. The crowd quiets, thousands of faces turn toward the man who has provided the free tequila and funded tonight's activities.
“Tradition is not a static thing,” I begin, my voice amplified and steady.
“It is a responsibility. It is the blood in our veins and the stories of our ancestors that we tell our children. Today, Rey del Sol doesn’t just want to celebrate a tradition.
We want to honor the resilience of the families who built this city, the ones who carry the spirits of those who came before us. ”