Whispers in white

The morning sun poured over the marble terrace like honey, thick and slow and golden.

Catalina sat at the edge of a long breakfast table trimmed with silverware no one actually touched, her spoon clinking lightly against the side of her glass as she stirred fresh papaya juice, even though she hated papaya.

The table was quiet, surrounded by open air and the hum of distant fountains. One guard leaned by a column, unreadable behind black sunglasses, and another paced the garden path below, slow and bored.

She was alone.

Lucien had left the room before sunrise, something about a meeting in the east wing, something he hadn’t cared to explain. He rarely did.

He left her behind now like furniture—pretty, placed, and not to be moved. But Catalina didn’t mind. She preferred the mornings.

They let her think without needing to perform. Then she saw her. A figure in white. Crossing the far edge of the compound near the rear chapel—flowing veil, black habit, sun glinting off her crucifix chain. A nun.

Catalina blinked once and leaned forward slightly. The guards didn’t react. The house staff didn’t glance up. But the nun wasn’t alone.

She was speaking to a man under the arch of the olive trees. A man in a bone-colored linen suit with silver hair slicked to the side and a posture too confident to belong to a priest.

Catalina felt the air in her lungs still, her fingers freezing around her fork. It was Don Esteban Torres. Lucien’s father. The man behind the machine.

The man who signed death warrants with pens that cost more than coffins. Catalina had never seen him this close before.

Only in portraits.

Framed photos.

She’d heard his name in whispers, in stories laced with fear and awe, but never spoken aloud in Lucien’s presence.

The nun nodded once, then turned and walked away from the arch. Catalina rose without thinking.

She left the table, grabbed a scarf to drape around her hair, slipped off her heels, and moved like someone invisible. One of the guards called her name. She didn’t look back.

She followed the nun.

Through the citrus grove, past the rear garden, toward the greenhouse. The woman moved quickly despite her age, like someone with secrets she didn’t trust the wind to overhear.

She stepped behind the greenhouse, into a stone alcove flanked by wild ivy. When she turned, she didn’t look surprised to see Catalina.

She just sighed, slow and low.

“My child,” the nun said softly.

Catalina stopped.

“Who are you?”

“I’m no one. Just someone who sees things others don’t.”

“You were speaking to Don Esteban.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The nun tilted her head.

Her face was gentle but hard to read, as if she’d spent too many years hiding thoughts behind compassion.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“Neither should you.”

A pause.

Then the nun stepped closer, her voice dropping lower.

“You’re walking a path that ends in flame.”

Catalina blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen it before,” the nun said, her voice threaded with something ancient.

“Women like you. Smart. Beautiful. Brave.

You think you can enter the lion’s mouth and come out the other side unchanged.

But lions don’t share power.

They only play with it before they bite.”

Catalina narrowed her eyes.

“Are you threatening me?” The nun smiled faintly.

“I’m warning you.” Catalina folded her arms.

“Why? You work for them.”

“I serve God,” the nun said.

“But even God walks carefully around the Torres family.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then Catalina asked, “Who are you to Lucien?”

The nun’s expression flickered.

“I knew his mother,” she said.

“Before they said she died.”

Catalina froze. “Said?”

“Yes,” the nun said.

“The papers called it an accident. A car crash. Tragedy, they said. But that woman didn’t die. She vanished. Chose to vanish. And I helped her.”

Catalina’s mouth went dry. “Why would she leave her children?”

“She didn’t,” the nun said.

“She tried to take them. She failed.”

The words settled like glass in Catalina’s chest, sharp and unfinished.

“She had two sons,” the nun continued.

“One they buried in fire. The other they raised in its ashes.” Catalina stepped forward.

“Lucien…” The nun looked up. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with memory. “Lucien was the quiet one. The one who never screamed, even when they took things from him.”

Catalina’s throat tightened.

“Gabriel,” she said softly. The nun’s gaze shifted. “You’ve seen him.”

Catalina nodded. The nun took her hand gently.

“He doesn’t speak because the world made too much noise when he was born. They took his mother. They hid him in shadows. The family calls him a mistake. But that boy… he’s the truth they’re most afraid of.”

Catalina’s heart pounded. “Tell me,” she whispered.

“Tell me everything.” But the nun’s eyes went sharp, not at her—but behind her.

Catalina turned. And saw him.

Don Esteban stood at the entrance to the alcove, hands folded behind his back, suit immaculate, smile cold.

“Camila,” he said, voice light.

“It’s time to go.”

The nun didn’t flinch. She released Catalina’s hand.

The Don stepped forward, took Sister Camila’s wrist with fingers that looked gentle but held steel.

“I was just admiring the gardens,” Camila said softly.

Don Esteban smiled. “Of course you were.”

Then he looked at Catalina. Not long. Just long enough.

“Miss Marín,” he said smoothly. “It’s a beautiful morning. You should enjoy it.”

Catalina nodded once, slowly. Her pulse thundered beneath her skin.

Don Esteban turned, guiding Camila away down the path, disappearing back into the house like ghosts vanishing into stained glass.

Catalina stood alone, surrounded by ivy, breathing too hard.

Her ears rang with questions she didn’t know how to ask.

And in her gut, a truth settled like ice: she was inside something far bigger than she’d ever planned.

And someone else had started playing before she even knew the rules.