And Esteban knew it too.
The threat came on a Thursday evening.
You were in the breakfast room because the staff had quietly stopped serving you in the formal dining area unless Esteban was present. Rain pressed against the windows. The silver tray in front of you held untouched soup, a spoon, and the kind of soft bread your mother used to bake herself before the house became a museum of fear. Esteban entered without announcement and sat across from you with the ease of a man visiting property he had already mentally inventoried.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “you will get married.”
At first, the sentence did not land.
You looked up slowly, waiting for context that never came.
He folded his hands. “Not to an executive. Not to one of the ridiculous sons of our friends who think they deserve you. Not to anyone who could support your authority later. I have chosen someone more appropriate.”
Your stomach turned cold.
He smiled then—not widely, just enough to let you see enjoyment beneath control. “His name is Elias. I found him under a bridge in Tepito. Filthy. Half-starved. No family worth mentioning. He smells like street rot and old rain. A perfect husband for a woman who mistakes sentiment for strength.”
You stood so fast your chair nearly fell.
“No.”
His expression did not change. “Yes.”
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