We walked toward the private parking area. A sleek black sedan waited, flanked by two men in tailored suits. They inclined their heads when they saw me.
“Bienvenida a casa, Señorita,” one of them said.
The title hit harder than I expected. I nodded, forcing a small smile, then slid into the back seat.
The drive to the estate was quiet, except for Rowan giving instructions in Spanish. My chest tightened when the gates came into view— tall wrought iron, the family crest in polished gold catching the late afternoon sun. The moment we rolled in, memories came flooding back: warm evenings on the terrace with the scent of bougainvillea, the salty breeze from the Mediterranean, my grandfather’s voice calling me mi pequeña.
Inside, the staff lined up in the entry hall. Familiar faces lit up when they saw me.
“Señorita,” the housekeeper whispered, her voice trembling. “Está en casa.”
And then I saw him. My grandfather. White hair, still upright and proud despite his age. His eyes softened, but when they landed on my thin frame, his jaw tightened.
“Elara.” He pulled me into his arms, holding me longer than I expected. When he stepped back, he studied me from head to toe. “You have lost weight. Your skin… too pale. Tell me, what did that man do to you?”
I looked away, forcing a weak smile. “We just drifted apart, Abuelo. That’s all.”
He frowned. “No me mientas. You think I do not know the look of a woman who has suffered?”
I had no answer. My throat burned, but I swallowed the truth. Not tonight.
That evening, after dinner, I wandered into my old art studio. The air smelled faintly of dust and turpentine. White sheets covered the easels and tables. I pulled one back and revealed an unfinished painting... the strokes rough, colors half-blended. My hands tingled just looking at it.
I touched the edge of the canvas. Four years gone. Four years I gave up painting, gave up myself, so I could cook his meals and wait for him to come home— only for him to choose someone else.
My fingers curled into fists.
Not anymore.
