House of secrets and games

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 think you want that. Not yet.”

Catalina stared at her. “Who are you?”

The woman gave a wry smile, not cruel, just tired.

“One of the wives. The second. Inés is the first. She keeps the knives polished.”

“You’re his—?” “No,” she said.

“Not anymore. But I know what it’s like to carry something that belongs to him.”

Catalina blinked. The woman reached into her robe, pulled out a white envelope, and laid it on the sheets between them.

“Prenatal vitamins. I called a private midwife. She won’t talk. She works for favors, not money.”

Catalina’s fingers hovered over the envelope, then curled into her lap.

“Why are you helping me?” The woman exhaled, long and low, and her face shifted into something older than it should have been.

“Because I see it in your eyes. You’re still deciding if you love him… or if you want to kill him.”

Catalina didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

---

By afternoon, she was on her feet.

The guards tried to follow her again, but she waved them off, told them she was going to the studio to paint, that she wanted to be alone.

They hesitated, but eventually backed down.

Lucien had given her privileges now—enough space to let her move if she didn’t rattle the cages. She didn’t go to the studio.

She went to the main house. It was built like a museum—grand columns, shuttered balconies, vaulted ceilings that made every step echo like a secret trying to escape.

The hallway lights buzzed low, and the doors were all identical except for the codes etched discreetly into their handles.

Catalina didn’t hesitate. She’d memorized which keypad buzzed louder, which hallway was used less after sundown.

She’d counted the cameras during one of Lucien’s endless dinners. She entered through the library.Pushed behind the third shelf on the left.

The study was colder than expected, probably soundproofed, with a digital file server glowing softly in the corner, the screen on idle.

She stepped to the desk, typing fast.

Isa had taught her how to navigate cartel file trees—hidden under art assets, buried beneath coded folders with names like Vermeer_NY-001 or Salvage-L-089.

Her father’s name was there. Miguel Cruz. Stamped on a transfer file dated the year of his “execution.”

But something didn’t match.

The time log showed movement six months later—internal tracking, a redirection notice.

No body.

No chain of custody.

No closure.

She stared at the screen, chest rising slowly.

And then she moved.

---

La Cruz Cemetery sat just outside the city walls, surrounded by cypress trees that bent in the wind like old mourners.

Catalina walked the path alone, head down, scarf wrapped loosely around her curls.

No one questioned her.

Everyone who visited here was grieving something they’d never get back.

The grave was easy to find.

Row 14, Column C. Miguel Cruz. Beloved husband. Loyal father. May he rest in power.

Except—the dirt didn’t feel settled, and the marble was clean. Too clean.

And when she placed her hand against the seam of the stone, it trembled slightly—like it hadn’t been sealed right or had been recently opened. There were no flowers. Her breath caught.

She didn’t cry. But her hands shook from rage. ---

She returned to the house by dusk, heart pounding, scarf loose, eyes sharp.

Lucien was in the west wing, she was told. Alone.

She moved quietly, barefoot, the tile cool under her soles, and turned the corner just in time to see him in the study—his hands were pressed to his face, knuckles white, jaw clenched, shoulders shaking.

Catalina froze.

She could have turned.

Could have disappeared back down the hall and never let him know she saw.

But something pulled her forward, soft and awful, a thread she didn’t want to name.

“Lucien,” she said.

He snapped upright, wiping his eyes too fast, too hard, trying to bury it under whatever mask he wore around the world. But it was too late.

He’d already been seen.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice scraped raw.

She stepped into the room. Closed the door behind her.

“I came to find you.”

He turned his back, walking to the window. “Congratulations. I wasn’t hiding.”

“You were.” Silence stretched between them. She waited.

And then he spoke—quiet, strangled, strange.

“I had a brother.”

Catalina’s heart skipped. Lucien didn’t look at her. Just kept staring out the window like if he blinked, he might shatter.

“He was older. Smarter. Always better. Everyone loved him more, but I didn’t care. He looked out for me. Protected me from my father. Then one night, the house caught fire. They said it was an accident. They said he was in the room. I wasn’t allowed to see the body.”

Catalina moved closer, barely breathing. Lucien laughed, bitter and breathless.

“I still hear him sometimes. In my dreams. Telling me to wake up. Telling me to look behind the curtain.”

Catalina’s pulse pounded in her ears. She didn’t say the name. Lucien turned slowly, and for the first time, he looked young. Not boyish. Not soft. Just stripped down to something she hadn’t seen before—honesty. The kind that hurts to carry.

“I’m not sure he died,” Lucien said. “I don’t have proof. I just… feel it. Like a splinter in my spine.”

Catalina stepped close enough to touch him. She didn’t. He didn't move. And it was in that stillness, in that one broken moment between truth and denial, that she understood where she was.

Not just physically. Not just on a cartel estate, not just in the heart of an empire built on blood.

She was inside something else entirely. Not a home nor a prison. She was inside a house of secrets and games.