Book 3: Chapter 7

The next morning, Esmeralda woke up to a dull, throbbing ache in her head. She blinked a few times, her vision clearing as she adjusted to the soft morning light streaming through the windows. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t in her room. The bed was unfamiliar, softer than what she was used to, and the scent of rich leather and cigar smoke hung faintly in the air.

She sat up slowly, her eyes scanning the room. Her wrist was bandaged, the pain dulled but still present, and her clothes had been changed into a soft silk nightgown. Her breath hitched. This wasn’t her doing, and the last thing she remembered was collapsing in the rain.

Then it hit her.

Santiago.

She had been here before, years ago, when things between them had been different. Before Diego, the web of lies and deceit had suffocated her life. The room was mostly the same, though now it felt colder, more distant. The walls, once a place of solace and passion, now loomed around her like an