One Week

The heavy front door felt miles away as Marisol walked down the hallway. Her heart was beating hard against her chest, but she forced her shoulders to stay straight. She opened the door, and the cool morning air rushed inside.

Adrian Ramirez stood on the porch. Close up, he was even taller than he looked from the window. His dark hair was brushed back perfectly, and his grey suit looked brand new. He did not look like a man who had just driven down a dusty vineyard road. He looked like he owned the world.

"I'm Adrian," he said. His voice was deep and smooth, like a warm drink on a cold day. He did not sound angry or mean. He just sounded calm.

He held out his right hand toward her. His skin was tan, and he wore a very expensive silver watch. He was offering a handshake.

Marisol looked down at his hand, then looked straight back up into his dark eyes. She did not move. She kept her hands clamped tightly behind her back. She would not touch him. She would not act like they were friends.

Adrian did not look angry when she refused. He just smiled a tiny, knowing smile and slowly let his hand drop back to his side. He was so calm it made Marisol want to scream.

"I am sorry about your father," Adrian said, stepping into the house without waiting for her to invite him. He looked around the big entryway, his eyes moving over the high ceilings and the family pictures on the walls. "Alejandro was a proud man. But pride does not pay bills."

"Why are you here, Adrian?" Marisol asked, closing the door hard behind him. She did not want him walking through her house. "You don't have an appointment."

"I don't need one," he said simply. He turned to face her, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "I came to give you the real number. The bank won't tell you, and your lawyer is probably too scared to say it out loud."

Adrian said a number. It was a single sentence, spoken softly, but the words felt like heavy bricks falling on Marisol's head. The debt was even bigger than she thought. It was a mountain of money.

After he said the number, Adrian just stood there. He did not brag. He did not threaten to throw her out on the street. He just waited, perfectly still, watching her face. It was like he already knew she did not have the money. He was waiting for her to break.

Marisol swallowed the hard lump in her throat. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands so she wouldn't shake.

"I need time," she said, trying to make her voice sound strong. "My father just died yesterday. I need time to go through the business accounts and figure things out."

Adrian looked at her for a long, quiet moment. His dark eyes softened just a little bit, moving across her tired face, down to her locked hands, and back up to her eyes. He did not look bored anymore. There was something intense in his stare, something hot and hidden that made Marisol's breath catch. He was not as cold-hearted as he wanted her to think.

"One week," Adrian said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I will give you seven days, Marisol. No more. Next Thursday, I will come back for my money. Or I will take the land."

Before she could say another word, he turned around, opened the front door, and walked out. A minute later, the loud roar of his SUV faded away down the road, leaving the house completely silent again.

By the afternoon, the silence in the house was driving Marisol crazy. She couldn't just sit there and wait to lose everything. She needed answers.

She climbed the creaky wooden stairs up to the attic. The air up there was hot and smelled like old dust and cardboard boxes. For hours, Marisol dragged heavy boxes into the light. She was searching for anything that could explain the hate between her family and the Ramirezes.

Everyone in the valley knew the Duartes and the Ramirezes hated each other. It was an old feud, a dark cloud that had hung over both families for generations. But no one ever talked about why

Marisol tore through old letters, photo albums, and yellowed newspapers. But she only found small pieces of the puzzle. She found an old paper about a card game from forty years ago where a lot of land was lost. She found a legal document from a messy lawsuit that was canceled before it ever went to court. Finally, she found an old notebook belonging to her grandfather. On one of the pages, the name *Ramirez* was crossed out so hard with a black pen that the paper had torn right through.

There was no big secret. Just small fragments of old anger. It wasn't enough to save her.

"Mars!"

Camila's loud voice echoed up the attic stairs. Marisol stood up, wiping the grey dust off her jeans.

"I'm up here, Camila!" she called back.

She heard her sister running up the wooden steps. When Camila reached the top, she was breathing fast, her face completely white. She was holding a thick manila folder tight against her chest.

"I was looking through Papa's closet," Camila gasped, her eyes wide with fear and excitement. "In the very back, behind his safe. I found this."

Camila held out the folder. Marisol took it, her hands suddenly trembling.

Written across the front of the paper, in her father’s heavy, shaky black ink, were words that made Marisol's heart stop completely:

If RamiRez ever comes for the land.