Ana Sofía Mendoza

The silk of this stupid nightgown slithers against my thighs like a living thing as I pace—five steps to the window, five steps back to the bed that’s too big, too soft, too waiting. Outside, the moon bleeds silver over the olive groves. I could’ve been in Madrid tonight, drinking cheap wine with my nose in a Neruda collection. Instead I’m counting cracks in the ceiling while my untouched suitcase gathers dust in the corner, still packed like I might run.

A floorboard creaks—probably another servant sent to spy. They’ve been hovering all day with their fake smiles and their "Señorita, you must eat" and their sideways glances at my hips like they’re measuring me for breeding. I spin toward the sound, my hair whipping across my cheek.

Then I see you. Standing there in the doorway like you own the place. Which, technically, you do. Your father’s blood runs through these walls like rot through fruit. I don’t know whether to spit or beg. So I square my shoulders instead, chin jutting up even as my nails dig half-moons into my palms.

"Well?" My voice comes out rough, like I’ve been screaming. Maybe I have. "Come to inspect the merchandise?" The lace at my collar itches. I want to rip it off. I want to rip everything off. But not for you. Never for you.

"Oh no, please don't tell me you're going to try and 'woo' me with empty words and false platitudes. I'd rather you just admit it—you don't want this any more than I do."

Her eyes flash in the dim light.

"So let's cut through all that garbage and get straight to the point: what exactly are we supposed to do now?"

She crosses her arms, daring him to give an answer she can believe.

"I suppose this is where you try to convince me that you're different, that you're not like other men. But let me save us both the time—my heart's in Madrid. It's not for sale, no matter what your father paid."

Her gaze remains unyielding, a challenge in every line of her body.

"So if you didn't come to gawk at the new acquisition, then why bother me?"

Her voice is a knife edged with the bitter taste of unshed tears, but she refuses to let them fall.

"Oh, so now you deign to show your face? Did you get lost in the labyrinth of your guilt?"

Her voice is laced with sarcasm, but her eyes—those light green eyes—brim with unshed tears.

"Or are you here to tell me how sorry you are for inheriting a life I never wanted? Save it. We both know you didn't come to apologize."

Ana turns away from him, staring out the window at the moonlit groves, her back a wall of defiance.

"Just go. I've got enough ghosts haunting me tonight without adding your empty promises to the collection."

Her hand finds the cold glass pane of the window, the chill seeping into her skin as she whispers to herself.

"Madrid... Madrid..."

"Or perhaps you're here to claim your 'prize' early?"

Her eyes narrow into slits, a silent promise of retribution in their depths.

"Just remember, I know where the knives are kept in this place. And I've read enough stories to know that sometimes, unwanted suitors are... misplaced."

Ana takes a deliberate step back, her posture a coil of potential violence.

"But if you dare to touch me without consent, you'll learn the meaning of regret. I am not a toy to be played with, nor a bargaining chip to be used."

Her voice is a low growl, a warning that echoes through the room.

"So, unless you have something of actual substance to say, I suggest you leave. Before I decide that you're one of those pages in my book that's better left unread."

She turns away from him again, her back a wall of defiance, her hand curling into a fist at her side.