A soft beep echoed through the quiet street
as Lorenzo's sleek black car idled outside Amara's home. Not her parent's, not a shared flat—her home. He smirkedslightly behind the wheel, thinking, What an independent woman. There was always something about her that challenged the kind of control he was used to holding.
The door opened, and Amara stepped out, her presence commanding despite the somber tone of the day. She wore a black midi dress, simple yet elegant, cinched at the waist with a soft satin ribbon. A thin, sheer shawl rested delicately on her shoulders, and her heels clicked softly as she approached the car. Her dark hair was tied back in a low chignon, a few loose strands framing her face.
Lorenzo got out and opened the door for her.
"Pareces una reina de luto," he said with a
faint smile. You look like a mourning queen.
She offered a polite smile. "It's not a date,
Lorenzo."
"No," he nodded. "But it could have been—if
ghosts enjoyed third-wheeling."
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They arrived at the mausoleum, nestled inside a private estate behind ornate iron gates. Marble columns towered at its entrance, and the polished stone glowed softly under the filtered light of the morning sun. Fresh white roses lined the steps, and a pair of caretakers bowed respectfully as they approached.
Inside, it was quiet and cool, the air perfumed faintly with lilies and incense. The Garcia family mausoleum was a work of art—etched glass, gold-accented carvings, and a mosaic ceiling that caught the light like stained jewels.
Lorenzo paused before a carved marble plaque.
Estella de León Garcia
Esposa Amada. Madre Fiera. Luz Eterna.
He kneeled and lit a candle, whispering a
prayer in Castilian. "Mamá, te presento a Amara." Mom, I introduce you to Amara.
Amara stepped forward quietly, placing a
small white carnation beside the candle. "Mucho gusto, Señora Estella," she whispered. "Your son speaks highly of you."
Lorenzo glanced at her, something flickering in his gaze. "She would've liked you. Strong women intimidated her... but she respected them."
They lingered, time slowing inside the
mausoleum's quiet grandeur. Lorenzo spoke of his mother—how she danced flamenco
barefoot in the kitchen, how she once threw a chancla at Don Manuelo during a family dinner, how she hummed boleros while brushing his hair as a boy. Amara listened, not just withears but with something deeper.
He wasn't the cold businessman here. Not in this sacred, sun-dappled marble space.
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On the drive home, the mood had shifted. It
was still quiet, but not awkward. The kind of silence that feels like a conversation waiting to happen.
Then he glanced her way, a faint smirk playing at his lips.
"You know… if we're going to go through with
this marriage plan, I don't think we need to wait too long."
Amara gave a dry laugh. "Lorenzo, we barely
know each other."
"So? Matrimonios por estrategia were normal in Spain for centuries. Look at the nobles." He shrugged. "Besides, love is something that grows. Or doesn't. Either way, we're not teenagers. We're running out of time."
She raised an eyebrow. "And if we end up
miserable?"
"Then we sign papers and walk away. Divorce exists for a reason."
She turned her gaze out the window, thoughtful. His logic was disturbingly appealing. Practical. No games. No fairytales. Just… possibilities.
"Thanks for bringing me," she said as she stepped out of the car.
Lorenzo leaned against the door. "Anytime, mi querida, Amara." And remember—weddings don't need love at first sight. Just a solid strategy."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. Maybe this plan was more dangerous than she thought.
And for the first time in a long time, Amara
didn't know whether her heart was racing from hesitation… or the thrill of what
could come next.