Your chest tightens. “Rodrigo said there was a ‘true will.’ A paper I’d never seen.”
The duke’s gaze sharpens. “A forged will can be made. But land transfers require more than ink.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says, voice turning ice-calm, “that Rodrigo Ibarra didn’t act alone.”
The next weeks turn into a strange new life, half sanctuary and half battlefield. You wake in a clean bed and still flinch when footsteps pass your door. Your daughters laugh again, cautiously at first, then with growing confidence, as if joy is a muscle returning after illness.
Cecilia begins lessons with a tutor who smells like chalk and patience. Mariana follows her like a shadow, eager to prove she can read just as well. Sofía becomes the darling terror of the kitchens, stealing rolls and charming everyone with sticky hands.
You, meanwhile, refuse to sit idle.
You offer to help in the infirmary, because the duke’s estate has its own small clinic for workers injured on the land. Elvira watches you work and finally says, grudgingly, “You have hands that know what they’re doing.”
“They had to,” you answer.
One afternoon, the duke summons you to his study. You walk into a room lined with books and ledgers, maps and sealed letters. The air smells like ink and strategy.
He sits behind a wide desk, face still drawn, but his posture is upright as if pain is something he refuses to grant a chair. A man stands near the window, younger than Mateo, with a scar along his jaw and eyes that miss nothing.
“This is Andrés,” the duke says. “My legal steward.”
Andrés nods to you with polite caution, like you’re a witness that could also be a suspect.
The duke slides a document across the desk. “This is the will Rodrigo presented to the vicario.”
Your hands hover over it like it might burn. You read the words, the flourish of signature, the official seals. It looks real enough to fool a village priest and a grieving widow.
But then you notice something. The date.
You look up slowly. “This is dated three weeks after Tomás died.”
Andrés’ eyebrows rise. “Exactly.”
Your pulse spikes. “So it’s impossible.”
The duke’s mouth tightens. “Impossible things happen when people are allowed to.”
A memory hits you like a slap. The day Tomás grew worse. Rodrigo arriving with a doctor you’d never seen. Doña Mercedes insisting Tomás sign “something for the sake of order.”
You swallow hard. “They tried to make him sign papers while he was sick.”
Andrés steps closer. “Did he?”
You close your eyes for a moment, forcing yourself to see clearly through grief. “He tried,” you whisper. “He couldn’t hold the quill. His hand shook too much.”
The duke’s voice lowers. “And then he died.”
You open your eyes and find the duke watching you with a fury so controlled it feels colder than screaming. “They didn’t just steal from you,” he says. “They erased him.”
A plan begins to form, piece by piece, like a house built from evidence. Andrés explains land registries, notaries, witness logs. Mateo reports that Rodrigo has been seen bribing officials in the nearby town. The duke orders a discreet audit of Ibarra holdings, tracing the paper trail like hunters following tracks.
You become part of it, not because you want power, but because you want truth. You sit with Andrés late into the night, translating your memories into usable details. You remember names, faces, dates, little remarks that seemed harmless at the time.
The duke watches you work and says one night, almost to himself, “Most people crumble when they lose everything.”
You don’t look up from the page. “I didn’t lose everything. I kept them.” You nod toward the hallway where your daughters sleep. “So I can’t crumble.”
Silence settles between you, thick and strange. When you finally glance up, the duke is studying you with an expression you can’t name, as if you’ve surprised him in a way he didn’t allow himself to expect.
The first strike comes on a bright morning when a carriage arrives at El Cuervo carrying a woman dressed in mourning black so perfect it looks rehearsed. Doña Mercedes steps out, stiff-backed, eyes sharp as pins.
Your stomach drops. Your hands go cold.
Elvira appears beside you like a wall. “Stay behind me,” she murmurs.
Doña Mercedes doesn’t look at Elvira. Her gaze locks onto you like a blade finding its sheath. “So it’s true,” she says. “You’ve bewitched him.”
You feel heat rise in your face, anger thick and hot. “I saved his life.”
Doña Mercedes’ smile is thin as paper. “And now you want to steal his.”
Mateo steps forward, voice formal. “Doña Mercedes, you are here without invitation.”
“I am here because that woman,” she points at you as if pointing at dirt, “has no right to stand under this roof.”
The duke appears at the top of the steps, crutch in hand, face carved from stone. “She has every right,” he says. His voice is calm, but it carries like thunder that learned manners.
Doña Mercedes’ eyes widen, then sharpen. “Your Grace… this is a misunderstanding.”
“No,” the duke replies. “This is an exposure.”
He gestures, and Andrés steps forward with a folder. “We have reviewed the document you supported,” Andrés says, voice precise. “It contains a date that cannot be true. We are also aware of irregularities in recent Ibarra land transfers.”
Doña Mercedes’ composure cracks for a heartbeat. “Lies.”
“Then you won’t mind answering questions,” the duke says.
Doña Mercedes straightens. “I won’t be interrogated like a criminal.”
“You already acted like one,” you say, and your voice surprises even you with its steadiness.
Her gaze snaps to you, hate bright as a match. “You should have died on the road with your little pests.”
Cecilia’s voice rings out from behind Elvira. “Don’t call us that.”
You turn and see your daughter standing in the doorway, chin lifted, eyes fierce. Mariana stands beside her, and Sofía clutches Mariana’s skirt, watching with the solemn curiosity of a child sensing a monster.
Doña Mercedes stares at them, and something ugly curls in her expression. “Those aren’t even—”
“Enough,” the duke says, and his voice slices clean. “Leave this estate. Mateo will escort you.”
Doña Mercedes recoils. “You choose a widow over blood?”
The duke’s eyes go cold. “I choose truth over rot.”
Doña Mercedes leaves with her pride leaking behind her like smoke. But you know she didn’t come just to insult you. She came to measure the battlefield.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
Leave a Comment