HIS TO DESTROY

He had her name; he had her scent in his sheets.But when Lucien Torres woke the next morning, the girl was gone.Not a note. Not a whisper.Just steam still clinging to the walls, a red silk strap floating in the bath, and a phantom ache he didn’t know how to name.Lucien wasn’t used to ghosts. He was used to obedience, to women who lingered in his bed until he dismissed them, to bodies that bent when he gripped their throats, to worship disguised as desire.But this—this girl—Catalina—she’d left like she was the one who owned the room. Like she had gotten what she came for. It made his jaw tick. And it made him want her again.“Find her,” he said simply.Mateo raised a brow across the breakfast table, pausing with his coffee halfway to his mouth.“You know her name?”“I know her mouth,” Lucien muttered, then looked up.“I want her brought to me before lunch.”No questions. No explanations.Mateo made the call.---Catalina wasn’t hiding. She had already returned to her staff quarter

The light was softer this time when she woke, filtered through silk curtains the color of dusted rose, and for a moment, Catalina didn’t know where she was.Her head felt heavy, her limbs warm and slow, like she’d been wrapped in cotton and set gently on fire.Then she blinked—and saw the woman. Not the midwife.This was someone else.Taller.Elegantly built.She wore a pale gray robe with her dark hair swept into a knot and a gold chain at her throat that marked her as someone important.She didn’t move when Catalina stirred, only tilted her head slightly, watching with eyes that had already calculated everything.“You’re awake,” the woman said softly.Catalina sat up slowly, her chest tight, a dull ache in her hips.“Who…?”“Don’t worry. I didn’t take you to a hospital,” she said, stepping forward and setting a glass of water on the nightstand.“If I had, they would’ve run bloodwork. Asked questions. And word would’ve gotten back to Lucien.” Her voice dropped slightly. “I don’t thin

The moment Sister Camila was taken, the air shifted. Not just in the garden, but inside Catalina’s chest, like something had been knocked loose, and every breath afterward came fractured and wrong. She stood there for too long, trying to replay the nun’s last look—the warning in her eyes, the weight in her voice—when she felt the air tighten again. Footsteps. Measured. Clean. She turned before the shadow fell across the path, and there he was. Don Esteban Torres. Lucien’s father. Now walking alone. No guards. No fanfare. Just silence and precision and silk shoes that didn’t dare collect dust. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her. Smiled slightly. Like he was looking at a chess piece that had wandered off the board. Then he said it. Not loud. Not threatening. Just a whisper dressed in a suit.“Valentina.” She didn’t try to make a move. Her blood stopped flowing. Her bones turned to ice. He smiled again—small, polite, unbothered. Then walked past her like he hadn’t just

The car exploded just outside the border checkpoint at Santa Marta. A black sedan with false plates, one guard inside, and enough accelerant beneath the backseat to make it look like an assassination.There were body parts left behind. All of which were burned beyond recognition. A bracelet melted into the seat. A strand of dark hair lay near the shattered window. And tucked into the dashboard, a cracked phone with Catalina Marín’s signal last pinged. It took less than an hour for the news to reach Lucien. She was dead, or so they claimed, but he didn’t believe any of it. Not for a second. The guards assigned to her that morning were inevitably dragged to the back courtyard. Two of them were shot on sight. One begged for his life, but Lucien didn’t blink when he gave the order. With Lucien, when it comes to Catalina, rage does not leave room for mercy.Catalina was gone. But she wasn’t dead. Not to him. No corpse, no confirmation, no closure. Just silence. And Lucien knew silence

The morning broke slow and heavy, weighed down by thick clouds and a hush over the Torres estate that felt unnatural. Catalina sat on the edge of her bed, hand pressed lightly against her stomach as dull aches whispered warnings. Her body was shifting, sending messages she wasn’t ready to interpret yet. Her mind, however, was somewhere else—looping through blurred images of Gabriel’s last smile, the strange hollowness of the house, and the silence of the woman who had once been her silent helper. A knock came at the main entrance just after breakfast. It was sharp but not aggressive, and the guards hesitated before opening. Sister Camilla entered wrapped in her dark veil, hands folded neatly before her, rosary beads clicking with every step. She looked like a vision pulled straight from a darker century. Lucien met her at the bottom of the staircase. “Sister,” he said, his tone cautious but polite. “You weren’t expected.” “I wasn’t invited either,” she replied. “But I had a dr