Chapter 1 — Return to Los Angeles

Pedro Hernandez

The Los Angeles airport is busier than I remember. People are rushing back and forth with suitcases in every color imaginable. I struggle to make my way through the huge terminal to get outside. The sun here feels stronger, giving the impression that it’s even hotter. Maybe it’s because of the ocean nearby. There are taxis and ride-share cars lined up in the parking lot.

“It’s good to be back, Bruno,” I say.

My loyal friend and butler stands beside me, trying to hold back his emotions. Bruno is a sensitive man. I get it. I’m home after seven long years in Madrid. I would love to see Max’s face now, after holding myself back in that horrible city for so long—but lucky for him, he died before that.

“Welcome home, young Pedro,” he says, his voice full of emotion.

I smile.

It’s the first time in years that I actually feel good. Maybe it’s the feeling of freedom.

“Come, Mrs. Sofia is waiting for you,” Bruno says, pulling my suitcase toward a black Escalade parked in one of the taxi spots.

Things have changed, Pedro.

Los Angeles isn’t the same as when I left. I give a faint, melancholic smile as my mind drifts in search of the woman I once loved so deeply. She must’ve changed too.

Bruno puts the luggage away with the help of a man in a black suit. I recognize him as my mother’s driver. He used to be Max’s driver too. And he was there that night. I suspect he never told anyone what happened, or my mother would have moved heaven and earth to find me instead of suffering alone all these years.

Just a few feet away, I notice a woman with flaming red hair. Of course I recognize that color. Even from behind, I still know it’s her. My heart pounds in my chest, and my fingers tremble with the urge to touch her again. I’ve dreamed of this moment for so many years that now it feels like a dream.

But my dream quickly turns into a nightmare. All those memories and feelings are thrown from the top of a skyscraper as I watch her gently kiss a man in a gray suit. I should’ve expected this. Adrielle wasn’t going to put her life on hold for me. My heart shatters once again when I see her with a dark-haired girl I hadn’t noticed before. The man, neatly groomed with a trimmed beard and styled hair, kneels and touches the girl's shoulders, smiling at her. They look like a happy family. I’m in shock.

She got married. She has kids with another man.

My anger toward Max grows even stronger as I think about how he ruined my life.

“I should’ve told you,” Bruno’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “She got married.”

I swallow hard, pushing my feelings down into a place where they can’t be reached right now. I turn to Bruno, trying to find a way around this topic—but there’s no way around it.

“She looks happy,” I say, trying to hide my pain. “One of us should be.”

I open the back door of the car and get in. Bruno follows. The driver takes the wheel and heads toward my parents’ house. Well, just my mother’s house now. I don’t want to talk about what I just saw. My feelings for her have come rushing back, and I can’t stop them. At what cost, Max? With his death, it feels like a weight was lifted off all of us—but it destroyed me. He took so many years from me.

Los Angeles is still as hectic as I remember. The streets are packed with cars and people shouting curse words at each other. We don’t exchange a single word on the way home. I like the silence, but it feels like we’re both carrying a lot of secrets. In the end, Max didn’t take them all to the grave, like he probably wanted to.

Rot in hell, you old bastard. I hope the worms are devouring your guts.

The house gates are darker than I remember. The trees along the wall have grown tall and full. Inside, the house looks the same. The walls are still painted in cool tones—fitting for the cold atmosphere we lived in. The driver parks near the stone fountain at the center of the garden. It’s dirty and dry now. I don’t get out right away. There’s still something I need to say before my mother shows up, though I know she’ll want to hear the full story eventually.

“Bruno,” I say, my eyes locked on the man in the black suit whose name I’ve forgotten. His name doesn’t matter. What matters is that he was there—with Max. I feel Bruno’s eyes on me, maybe sensing something’s off. He’s right.

“What’s his name?” I ask, turning my head toward him.

Bruno looks confused—maybe at my sudden question or because I can’t remember the man’s name.

“Mitchel, young Pedro,” he replies.

I nod in agreement.

Bruno still looks confused, as if expecting an explanation.

“Fire him.” My tone is not a request, but a command.

I don’t wait for questions. I open the door and step out. The garden isn’t the same anymore. Nothing here is. Not even me. I walk toward the massive dark wooden front door. I don’t wait for anyone to open it—I just step inside, firm in my stride, into the house I once considered a dark place. It was never about the house. It was about someone.

I search for my mother in every room, hoping she’s home. I know she’ll be happy to see me. Bruno told me during the flight that she’s been feeling lonely. Max pushed everyone away from her, and after he got sick, he overwhelmed her.

“Maybe you’ll find her in your father’s library, young Pedro,” Bruno’s voice echoes behind me with a melancholic tone. “She’s been spending time in there, like she misses him.”

My body wants to unleash all the anger I carry toward that man, but I won’t do it here—not just after returning home.

“Has his body been buried?” My tone is cold, showing no emotion for Max.

I don’t turn to Bruno. I don’t want to continue this conversation. I just want to find my mother.

“He was buried three days ago,” he replies firmly.

“Good. That means there’s no chance of him coming back.”

I head toward the library. The doors are closed, as if someone inside doesn’t want to be disturbed. I hesitate before touching the double handles. I don’t want to bother her—but I’ve spent so long alone, isolated from the people I love. All I want now is her warmth and comfort.

When I open the door, I see a woman standing in front of the large family portrait we took years ago. It’s hanging above the fireplace, which shows no signs of life or flame. The dark-haired woman turns toward me and can’t hide her emotions when she sees me. I watch her carefully. Her sad eyes are full of pain; the spark they once had is gone. Her dark hair now shows strands of gray, clear signs of aging. There are small wrinkles on her face—etched lines of suffering. My feet carry me toward her as my mind tries to process that I’m finally home after all these years.

“Mijo.” Her voice trembles with emotion, reflecting the loneliness and longing she must’ve felt all this time. Her arms open toward me, and in the blink of an eye, I’m wrapped in her embrace. “Oh, you’re home. Finally home.”

I smile softly, tears welling in my eyes.

“I’m home, Mom.”