Chapter 27
Ernesto
Our descent downstairs is a calculated performance.
The quiet hum of conversation, a mix of polite laughter and the clinking of glasses, rises to meet us.
My hand is a firm weight on Alejandra's, her fingers delicate but not fragile within my grasp.
The emerald silk of her dress moves like liquid shadow, the slit revealing a tantalizing length of her thigh with every step.
The diamonds I placed around her neck catch the light from the chandelier, scattering brilliant fractals across her skin.
As we reach the bottom step, a sea of faces turns toward us. The low murmur of conversation stops, as dozens of eyes, fixate on the woman hanging on my arm.
"Ernesto, my boy!" Arthur Vance, a portly man with a face perpetually flushed, too much sun and expensive scotch, is the first to approach us.
He's a crucial investor in one of my logistics subsidiaries.
His wife, a sickly thin woman draped in beige, peers at Alejandra from behind a pair of oversized glasses.
"And this must be the lovely bride," Arthur booms, extending a hand Alejandra.
My grip tightens on Alejandra's waist, pulling her flush against my side–an instinctive claim. She tenses but quickly recovers, her smile beaming even more bright.
"Alejandra. It's a pleasure to meet you and your wife, sir," she says, her voice smooth and warm. She offers her hand, and Arthur takes it, holding it a moment too long. A low growl builds in my chest, a primal warning I recently have learned to consciously suppress.
"The pleasure is all mine. We've been hearing whispers, of course, but you are far more radiant in person." He flatters my wife, while his wife stands next to him, shameless.
Alejandra's smile doesn't falter, but I know she dislikes the flattery, the empty charm of men like Arthur. She glances at me, a flicker of a question in her eyes. I answer her with a squeeze to her waist and look towards the rest of the crowd as she does the same. Perfect smile in place.
Verónica appears at my elbow, a vision in crimson, a flute of champagne in her hand.
"Stop crowding them, Arthur, you'll scare her off before dinner," she chides, her tone light but with an edge of command. She gives Alejandra's arm a reassuring squeeze. "You look breathtaking."
"You too," Alejandra replies. Julián materializes to my right, his own smile a flash of predatory white. He winks at Alejandra over the rim of his glass.
"The queen of the evening arrives," he says, his voice a boom in the foyer as he points us both out. "Told you my brother was a lucky bastard."
I shoot him a look that promises retribution.
He just grins, completely unbothered.
My hand never leaves the small of Alejandra's back the entire evening.
When a potential client from Brazil–a man with a lingering stare–draws her into a conversation about the hospital she used to work, she takes a small step away from me, her posture animated as she speaks.
I let her have the space for a moment, watching the way her hands move, the passion that lights her face when she talks about her work.
But the moment his hand touches her arm, a gesture of casual familiarity, my patience ends.
I close the distance in a single step, my arm circling her waist, pulling her back against my body. The man's hand drops, his smile wavering. I don't look at him because my attention is solely on Alejandra.
“Palomita,” I murmur into her ear–my lips grazing her neck–as I lock eyes with Mr. Monteiro. “I think Senator Gamez would like to meet you.”
Alejandra's body is stiff for a second, as the client Monteiro walks away, completely flushed from neck to ears. Once he’s a few feet away from us she relaxes into my hold, playing her part she’s learning to lean on me.
"Alright, let’s meet this senator" she agrees, turning her attention back to the next person willing to speak to us.
I watch her navigate the shark-infested waters of my world.
She’s more than just beautiful; she’s sharp.
Knowing how to deflect intrusive questions with a disarming smile and turning conversations back to less personal topics.
When an older woman asks a pointed question about her family, Alejandra doesn't flinch.
"My father is doing much better, thank you for asking," she says, her tone even. "He's enjoying his retirement. And my brother is excelling at university. We're very proud of him."
No mention of her father's cancer or hint of the financial burdens that drove her to me. She presents a picture of a perfect trophy wife, a life of quiet privilege—a perfect lie.
Then someone asks about Camilla.
"Oh, she is a force of nature," Alejandra says, as her practiced smile transforms into a real one.
A light ignites in her eyes, genuine pride for my little girl.
"She's so smart, funny, and she has the wildest imagination.
She's probably trying to convince the babysitter right now to read her the same story for the tenth time. "
She actually gleams as if Camilla is her own. A strange warmth spreads through my chest, a feeling so foreign I almost want to flinch from it. Demonios Ernesto, she’s just playing the role of a devoted stepmother–and she’s playing it exceptionally well. That’s all.
Consuelo appears at the door of the foyer, her presence a quiet signal.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, dinner is served. Please follow the staff into the dining area." I announce, my voice cutting through the chatter.
As the guests find their seats, a low hum of admiration for the food fills the room. Consuelo has outdone herself this year. The scent of roasted turkey, smoky and rich, mingles with the sweeter notes of cinnamon and piloncillo from the sweet potato purée. It’s a perfect fusion of two worlds.
I hold out the chair to my right and as Alejandra takes her seat, she scans the table, her eyes taking in the elaborate floral centerpiece, the perfectly folded napkins, the dozens of crystal wine glasses at each setting. A faint blush colors her cheeks, a hint of awe she can’t help.
"Alejandra, my dear, this menu is an inspiration," Mrs. Vance declares from halfway down the table. "Wherever did you come up with a mezcal-infused gravy?"
Alejandra's smile is modest, but her eyes sparkle. "You'll have to ask Consuelo that question. She's the genius of our kitchen. It was her idea to use the new Rey del Sol Mezcal, making it a perfect way to showcase the brand."
She deflects the praise, but in doing so, she highlights her own role, the lady of the house in training.
"Well, you’re a quick study," another board member remarks. "A natural hostess."
The conversation shifts, and Arthur Vance leans forward, his expression turning serious. "Tell me, Alejandra, do you miss the hospital? It must be quite a change of pace, from the ER to… all this." He gestures vaguely around the opulent room.
It is a test—a question designed to see if she is content, or a flight risk.
She takes a delicate sip of her wine before answering, her composure flawless.
"My father's health and Camilla keep me more than busy," she says. Alejandra looks at me with a soft expression on her face. "I'm grateful to Ernesto for all this extra time. It's a blessing and a gift to be able to focus on my family."
She looks away from me, her gaze sweeping over the other guests.
"But all this extra time has given me a chance to think about what else I might want.
I've actually been considering going back to school and getting a nurse practitioner's license.
" She pauses, then adds the final, critical piece, directing it back to me.
"Of course, that's if Ernesto is on board with the idea. "
My eyes lock on hers and I see the determination in them. Technically, between us two, she’s not asking for my permission, she’s telling me her plans. Daring me to object in front of our guests. I can tell she’s building her safety net for when this marriage will inevitably end.
What she doesn't understand is that there is no end. She’s mine. From the moment she whispered "I do" back in my office, she bound herself to me. Death is the only exit clause in this contract.
A cold silence has fallen over the table as everyone waits for my response. I let the moment hang in the air, as I take a sip of my wine.
After a few seconds of silence, I give her a slow, deliberate smile.
"My wife's ambition is one of the things I admire most about her," I say, making my voice smooth as silk. "I will support her in any way I can."
A collective sigh of relief ripples through the entire room. All the women smile, their eyes soft with romantic approval and the men nod, satisfied. I’ve succeeded in playing my part as the loving, supportive husband.
Suddenly the dining room doors swing open.
Every head turns as my uncle, Casimiro, stands in the doorway.
Once again he wears an expensive suit that looks stiff and uncomfortable on his frame.
His eyes, small, dark and beady, sweep the room, assessing, calculating.
He’s a parasite, a man who has spent his entire life feeding off the legacy my father built.
His gaze lands on me, then slides to Alejandra a slow, unpleasant smile spreads across his thin lips.
"Ernesto. Nephew," he says, his voice a dry rustle of dead leaves. "Forgive my tardiness. I was unavoidably detained."
I don’t bother acknowledging his pitiful excuse. "Tío," I say, my voice flat. "Take a seat, you've already missed the first course."
He walks into the room, his movements unhurried, as one of the manservants rushes over to pull out the empty chair beside Julián. He ignores his seat, instead deciding to make his way toward the head of the table, towards us.
"I see you have a full house," he continues, his eyes still fixed on Alejandra. "Alejandra, so nice to see you again. May I say you are a vision in that dress and the Damos diamonds."