Dolores treated Lucía with a warmth that felt almost radical in that house. She asked about Lucía’s son Mateo and her daughter Camila, remembered their birthdays, and insisted on sharing small treats she ordered from a local bakery. She laughed easily and spoke openly about her past as a public school music teacher, about raising her son alone after her husband died young, about the quiet pride she felt watching Trevor succeed.
The tension in the house began with Felicity Kessler.
Felicity, Trevor’s wife, moved through the mansion with effortless authority. She was polished, articulate, and endlessly composed. Her family came from old money, and she carried that heritage like an invisible shield. To Lucía, Felicity’s politeness always felt conditional, measured, as if kindness were a resource to be rationed. From the moment Dolores arrived, Felicity’s patience thinned. The older woman’s presence disrupted the house’s carefully curated aesthetic. The smell of home cooked food. The sound of old piano pieces drifting through the halls. The visible reminder that love could exist outside ambition.
On that morning, Lucía climbed the stairs and knocked gently on Dolores’s bedroom door. A weak voice answered. Inside, she found Dolores sitting upright in bed, her face pale and drawn, dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“My head feels heavy,” Dolores murmured. “And my stomach will not settle. I barely slept.”
Lucía adjusted the pillows, her chest tightening with unease. This had happened before. Several times in recent weeks, Dolores had complained of nausea, dizziness, and moments of confusion. Trevor had arranged medical appointments, and the doctors spoke of age, recovery, anxiety. Nothing definitive. Nothing alarming enough to prompt urgency.
But Lucía noticed patterns.
Dolores always worsened after the herbal tea Felicity prepared for her in the afternoons. A special blend, Felicity said, meant to calm nerves and promote rest. At first, Lucía dismissed her own suspicion as paranoia. Who was she to question the lady of the house. Yet experience had taught her that danger often hid behind pleasant routines.
Later that morning, Lucía nearly collided with Felicity in the hallway. Felicity’s gaze swept over her with detached precision.
“How is she today,” Felicity asked, her tone neutral.
“She did not sleep well. She says she feels sick again,” Lucía replied carefully.
