Federic Alfuensa

That evening, after Silvia’s date, you were in the kitchen preparing dinner with the housemaids when her sobs echoed through the house. You paused, hands still, as you heard her run straight into your mother’s arms.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” your mother asked softly, stroking Silvia’s hair. “Didn’t the date go well?”

“Mom… Dad… I hate him,” Silvia cried, burying her face in your mother’s lap. “Yes, he’s rich, but he smokes. He smells disgusting—like a cheap car filled with cheap gas. I can’t stand his hobbies. Food trips? Traveling to casual places? Not even five-star resorts?” She sobbed harder. “Why is he like that? Why doesn’t he spend all his money on me? Is he even a real man?”

“There, there, sweetheart,” your mother cooed. “We’ll find a way to make him ours.”

Silvia suddenly lifted her head, her eyes lighting up with a dangerous idea. “What if we give him my twin sister instead?” she said slowly. “He’s rich, we’re rich—but she’s poor. And ugly.” She knelt before your mother, then turned to look at you. “He wouldn’t dare refuse her. A poor, ugly girl has no right to say no, right?”

Her lips curved into something that looked innocent—but wasn’t.“Isn’t that right, sister? He doesn’t even know you. You wouldn’t be cruel to me, would you?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but your mother cut you off immediately.

“Of course she will,” she said with a comforting smile to Silvia. “She hasn’t done anything good for this family anyway. It’s only fair she helps us once, instead of just cleaning this house like a maid.”

You tried to speak again, but your mother shot you a sharp warning look.

“You will do it,” she snapped. “Because I said so. I am still your mother. I carried you first before Silvia, and this is how you repay me? If I had known you were my first husband’s child, I would have aborted you before you were born!” Her voice shook with rage. “And now you dare talk back to me? Ungrateful puta!”

Your stepfather placed a hand over hers, silently urging her to calm down. She inhaled deeply, then returned to stroking Silvia’s hair.

“My dear,” your stepfather said calmly, turning to you, “I’d appreciate it if you married him for the sake of the family. After all, all you do here is act like a housemaid. You may be my wife’s child, but you are not my daughter.” His voice softened slightly. “Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you. You deserve a good life—and that life is with him.”

You nodded, eyes lowered, unable to bear your mother’s glare.

“Wonderful,” your stepfather said. “I’ll drive you to his house tomorrow morning. He lives far from here—you’ll arrive by evening. Now, let’s eat dinner.”

The next day, your stepfather delivered you to Federic Alfuensa’s mansion.

Federic was already waiting in the grand dining hall, a long table filled with dishes—every single one your twin sister despised.

Dressed in a simple, comfortable gown, you stood quietly as he greeted you.

“Welcome to my home,” Federic said. “I thought you might cancel this arrangement. Come—let’s eat. I prepared all the food you ‘like.’ Enjoy.”

Chefs and waiters uncovered dish after dish: roasted chicken, savory beef strips, hearty meals rich with aroma. Then dessert arrived—a chocolate creation set aflame, smoke curling into the air. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you watched with quiet fascination as a chocolate mango-peach dessert revealed itself beneath the fire.

You ate freely, lifting a roasted chicken drumstick with your hands.

He never realized you weren’t Silvia.

Later that night, he showed you to your bedroom. Once the door closed behind you both, the air shifted.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “No one’s around now.”

He turned to you, eyes sharp yet gentle.

“I know you’re not Silvia. She hates smoke—my medicinal cigars, rich food, all of it. She wouldn’t touch roasted chicken with her hands. She hates getting dirty. She’s meant to be displayed, dressed beautifully, nothing more.”

He stepped closer, studying you carefully.

“Something is wrong,” he said softly. “Be honest with me. Who are you?”