Glace d’Amour

"Dario, say that again."

My voice was so soft it could have scattered in the mountain breeze.

He frowned, openly irritated by my reaction. "Mira, don't make a scene. The marriage was only meant to shut up the family shareholders in Madrid. My brother just died, and the Vega family can't afford chaos. Sofia is an Alvarez, and she's carrying Javier's child. She needs to be my wife on paper. Nothing between you and me has to change."

Seven years ago, Dario had been a disgraced heir, driven out of Madrid by a family power struggle and left to recover from his injuries in Granada. I took him back to the courtyard my mother had left me, stitched his wounds, and stayed beside him through the lowest point of his life. In front of my mother's photograph, he swore that once he regained control of the family company, he would claim Nico and me publicly.

He said he would never let me live the way my mother had, hidden in the shadows by a man who refused to take responsibility.

Now he was pushing me back into the same shadows.

Over the past seven years, every time he returned to Madrid on business, he told me to stay out of any public photographs. I couldn't attend the Vega family's Christmas dinner. I couldn't sit beside him at company celebrations. Even on the day Nico was born, he only stayed at the hospital for two hours before rushing off.

He said everything would change once things stabilized.

I believed him time and again because whenever he came back to this courtyard, he would bathe Nico, sit in my mother's old chair and listen to me talk about the co-op, and hold me late at night, telling me that what he missed most in Madrid was right here.

It turned out that tenderness was never a promise. It was just a shelter he needed when he was tired.

High heels clicked over the stone beyond the courtyard gate. A woman in a cream-colored dress walked in with one hand curved over her belly, followed by a driver, several bodyguards, and two maids.

"Dario, I'm not feeling well."

He shot to his feet and hurried over to steady her. "Was the drive too rough? The doctor told you to stay off your feet. Come on, let's get you settled."

Sofia leaned into his arms and looked over his shoulder at me. Her gaze was cool and appraising, composed in the way only a winner's could be, but her voice stayed soft. "You must be Mira. Dario's told me about you. Thank you for taking care of him all these years, and for raising Nico for the Vega family."

She put a little extra weight on the words "for the Vega family."

I didn't acknowledge her. I only looked at Dario.

Sofia surveyed the courtyard, then pointed to the old building on the east side with its arched windows. "The light in there is beautiful, and you can see the snowcapped mountains from the windows. Madrid feels stifling, and my doctor wants me somewhere quiet for the pregnancy. Could I stay there?"

My whole body went rigid.

That was the workshop my mother had left me. Inside were her loom, her silversmithing tools, her cassette tapes, and decades of recorded family oral histories. Since her death, I hadn't been able to bring myself to move a single thing.

Dario followed Sofia's gesture without a moment's hesitation. "Of course."

He turned and ordered the bodyguards, "Clear everything out. Replace the furniture with what Sofia brought from Madrid. Be gentle. Don't let the dust bother her."

Several bodyguards immediately started toward the workshop.

I rushed over and blocked the doorway. "No one goes in there. Those are my mother's belongings."

Dario came toward me, his brow furrowed. "Mira, be reasonable. Those old cabinets and that loom should have been restored years ago. The whole room is coated in dust, and Sofia can't be around mold while she's pregnant. When I get back to Madrid, I'll have new equipment sent to you and rent you a bigger studio."

"I don't want your compensation. This is my house. All of you, get out."

His expression darkened. "Do you really have to make a scene in front of everyone? Sofia is my legal wife, an Alvarez. The fact that she's willing to come to a small town like this and stay for a few months is already a concession to you. You've lived here your whole life. What room can't you sleep in?"

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Don't use your mother's past to guilt me. She never married either, and she still managed to raise you. Now you're fighting over an old building and a certificate. Isn't that beneath you?"

Those words cut into the place that hurt the most.

I looked at the man in front of me and suddenly felt like the past seven years had been a joke.

"Dario, you liar!"

My sister Lucia came charging into the courtyard, still gripping the small hatchet she'd been using to split firewood. "This is my sister's home! You bring another woman here to take it from her, and then you insult our mother?"

The bodyguards moved in immediately and pinned Lucia to the stone ground. The hatchet clattered down beside her.

Dario looked down at her, his voice cold. "The only reason I'm not calling the police is that you're Mira's sister. Come near Sofia with that hatchet again, and I'll have you arrested."

He turned to me, as if waiting for me to be grateful for his leniency. "Step aside. Don't make me have someone move you."

I looked at Lucia struggling on the ground, then at Sofia. She was hiding behind Dario, the trace of a smile she couldn't quite conceal playing at the corner of her lips.

Slowly, I let go of the doorframe.

"Lucia, stop."

I picked up the hatchet and set it against the wall, then slid the silver bracelet off my wrist and placed it gently on the stone table in the center of the courtyard.

"The building is yours."

I helped Lucia up and led her toward the cramped, damp storage room on the far west side.

Dario stared at the bracelet on the table, a crease appearing between his brows as if he wanted to ask what I meant. But Sofia caught his sleeve at once. "Dario, my feet hurt from standing."

He pulled his gaze away at once and guided her toward the workshop. "It'll be ready soon. Sit down for a moment."

I closed the door, shutting out everything beyond it.

Lucia clung to me and cried. "How could he do this? He wasn't like this before."

I patted her back without shedding a tear. Then I took out my phone and called Mateo Ruiz, an old friend from university and a lawyer I trusted.

When he answered, I didn't break down. I gave him the facts one by one: the marriage, the gutted workshop, the bodyguards keeping us from leaving. Mateo was silent for a few seconds. He didn't ask why I'd waited so long. The first thing he said was simple.

"Make sure you and the child are safe first. The property deed, Nico's birth certificate, the inn's license, all the bank transfers and messages from the past seven years, back up everything you can find. Don't confront them directly, and don't sign anything."

In that moment, I realized that someone who truly respects you doesn't blame you for not leaving sooner. He simply asks what you need right now.