Chapter 8
LORETTA
Atremor ran through my hands.
Then I felt him move.
Rafael.
He crouched beside me.
He didn’t touch me at first. His proximity alone was enough to alter everything.
I turned my face slightly toward him out of instinct, though I couldn’t see anything.
Only darkness.
Only him.
His breath brushed my ear when he spoke.
“Repeat after me,” he said.
My throat felt dry, like I had been walking for hours instead of kneeling for seconds.
He began.
“I, Loretta...”
My name sounded different in his voice.
There was no warmth in the way he said it, no hint of affection or familiarity.
He spoke it with the detached formality of a man reciting the terms of a contract rather than addressing the woman he had married only hours ago.
“...do solemnly affirm that my marriage to Rafael ‘El Mencho’ Pérez is not founded on love, affection, or romantic intent, and shall remain strictly contractual in nature for its duration.”
The word landed in my chest like a stone.
“Say it,” he ordered quietly. “Word for word.”
My lips parted slightly, a protest already forming at the back of my throat.
But it never made it out.
My voice betrayed me as I repeated the words exactly as he had spoken them, while something inside my chest fractured quietly with every sentence I gave him.
An agonizing moment passed.
The kind of silence that did not empty the world, but filled it too much.
“The vows you made are set in stone. Do not ever forget your place in this marriage.”
Then I heard him rise beside me.
The gravel shifted under his shoes—slow, deliberate steps retreating from the grave.
He was done with the humiliating vows he had forced me to repeat before his late wife.
And just like that, I was left behind with them.
I understood, in a quiet, uneasy way, that this was not the end of anything.
Only a beginning I had not agreed to fully see.
Rafael did not do anything without intent. And whatever lay ahead of this marriage—whatever resentment, whatever history between him and my family—was still waiting to unfold.
A thin, uneasy thought pressed in: what else was he capable of?
I swallowed the ache in my throat and forced myself to move.
Slowly, I stood.
The silence around the grave felt heavier without him in it.
I turned toward the sound of his footsteps, orienting myself by what I could hear rather than what I could see, one hand lifting slightly in front of me—not reaching for him, but anchoring myself in his direction.
Carefully, I followed.
The hem of my gown dragged over uneven ground, catching on dust and dry fragments of earth with each cautious step.
I moved slowly, measuring the space I couldn’t see, until the faint outline of the car returned to me in memory more than sight.
My fingers brushed against cold metal.
The vehicle.
I found the edge of the door, traced it down, and opened it.
I climbed in carefully.
The seat swallowed me in smooth leather, and I adjusted my gown as best I could, trying to reclaim some sense of control over something—anything.
Moments later, I heard him settle into the driver’s seat.
The engine roared to life almost immediately—powerful, expensive in a way that made everything else feel temporary.
Then his voice.
Flat. Final.
“Ramiro will bring your things from the apartment.”
A pause.
“My home is now yours.”
Of course it was.
My fingers tightened slightly in my lap.
This was not what marriage was supposed to feel like.
Not that I had ever believed in marriage beyond stories, but still.
This felt like displacement.
Not union.
The car moved again.
The drive was long enough that silence stopped feeling like absence and started feeling like atmosphere.
The hum of tires against pavement became the only consistent thing in my world, steady enough that I began to measure time by it instead of thought.
Rafael didn’t speak.
I didn’t either.
My sadness settled deeper with every passing minute—not dramatic, not tearful, just heavy.
Like something pressing gently but constantly against my chest, refusing to move no matter how I shifted.
Eventually, the car slowed.
Then stopped.
Even before I opened the door, I could tell the space was different.
When I stepped out, the scent hit me fully—jasmine first, followed by something more structured beneath it. Expensive wood. Leather warmed by use. Air conditioning that carried a faint metallic coolness only wealth seemed able to maintain without effort.
It wasn’t just a house.
It was a statement.
Rafael’s hand found my waist, and I flinched so sharply I nearly lost my balance.
His grip tightened immediately—not harsh, but firm enough to steady me—keeping me upright before I could fall.
Then, without a word, he guided me forward.
It was not an intimate gesture. That much was clear. He wasn’t pulling me close for affection; he was leading me through unfamiliar ground, making sure I didn’t misstep in a place I couldn’t see.
And yet his palm stayed there.
Warm through the silk.
Steady in a way that made my body react before my thoughts could intervene.
For half a second, I hated that reaction more than anything else.
I forced myself to stiffen, to reclaim control of myself, even as the awareness of him lingered beneath my skin like a betrayal I couldn’t quite undo.
He was everything I should have resented in that moment—the cruelty of the vows he had just made me speak, the coldness of what he had demanded from me at the grave.
And yet his touch unsettled that certainty.
Not because it was kind.
Because it was steady.
And I hated how much my body responded to that difference.
My heels clicked against smooth flooring.
The sound echoed upward, multiplying into open space.
The room we entered was large enough that my footsteps didn’t return immediately, which told me more than sight ever could.
A mansion.
We moved deeper inside.
A faint chime sounded somewhere far away.
Maybe wind brushing through an open terrace. Or glass. Or something ornamental meant to remind visitors they were inside something expensive enough to include beauty as decoration.
After a few more steps, he stopped.
I felt it instantly in the shift of his body beside me.
Then he spoke again.
“Ramiro will take you to your new room.”
A pause.
“If you need to learn the layout—distances between rooms, turns, steps—he will assist you until you master it.”
Master it.
The word landed oddly in my chest.
“Sister-in-law.”
The voice came from behind me—light, almost amused.
My entire body locked instantly.
Bruno.
Of course.
My fingers curled tightly at my side before I could stop myself.
For a split second, I almost asked what he was doing here, until reality settled in again like a weight in my chest.
He was Rafael’s brother. Of course he would be here. Of course he had access.
Footsteps followed—confident, unhurried.
Each one made something in my stomach tighten.
A tight unease formed in my chest—please, let it not be true that Bruno was living here too.
The thought came before I could stop it.
Because if he was here, then I was not safe here.
“I know we didn’t start on the best terms,” Bruno said smoothly, his voice wrapped in something that tried too hard to resemble sincerity, “but you’re family now, Loretta. You deserve the respect my brother’s wife is entitled to.”
My jaw tightened at the phrasing.
My brother’s wife.
“In fact,” he continued, “I owe you an apology for my earlier behavior.”
The words were too perfect.
Polished in the way lies often were when they had been rehearsed.
I shook my head once, cutting through his performance before it could settle.
“Mr. Pérez,” I started, then corrected myself sharply, frustration slipping through despite me. “Rafael... I understand your brother has every right to this house, but I cannot feel safe around him. I will never be comfortable living here if he stays.”
“This house is too large,” I continued carefully. “Too empty. I can’t— I can’t see it. I don’t know it yet. And he—”
I stopped myself before I said what I truly meant.
And he makes me feel watched.
Bruno let out a soft, wounded laugh.
“Mrs. Pérez,” he corrected me lightly, as if savoring the name. “You already convinced Rafael to forbid me from stepping into his office. Now you want him to do the same with his home?”
A beat.
“You seem to enjoy testing the bond between my brother and me,” he added. “Is this because of what almost happened at your apartment? I’ve apologized. Repeatedly. But please—do not turn my brother against me.”
His voice lowered.
“This is his house. Which means it is mine, too.”
Something cold settled in my chest.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my voice steady.
“Stop pretending,” I said quietly. “It doesn’t suit you. You’re a predator, Bruno. Possibly worse. And there is no version of this where I feel safe with you moving through these halls.”
The word halls felt too large in my mouth.
Because I couldn’t see them. Only imagine them.
I could hear Bruno’s breathing shift—faster now. Sharper. Like something in him had been struck and didn’t like it.
Then Rafael spoke.
And the temperature of the room changed.
“Bruno, you will always remain my brother,” Rafael said evenly, “but Loretta must feel safe in this house. That is the least she is entitled to. So you will leave—and you will not come here again without asking my permission.”
The words landed with a weight I hadn’t expected.
I stood there, stunned.
I had been bracing for resistance—some dismissive reminder that I had no authority here, that comfort was not something I could demand in his home. Instead, he had done the opposite. Not only had he restricted Bruno from my workplace, but he had now drawn a line inside his own house.
A part of me didn’t know what to do with that.
It unsettled me more than refusal would have.
Because it meant Rafael was not entirely what I had assumed. Not entirely cruel. Not entirely unreachable.
And I hated that a part of me noticed.