El Ángel

The following morning, Isabella awoke to the soft glow of dawn creeping through the thick velvet curtains of the guest room. The air smelled of lavender, the kind that filled the mansion’s halls with an almost suffocating sense of opulence. The grand bed, its satin sheets smooth beneath her, felt strange in the silence of her surroundings. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe that last night hadn’t really happened. That the terrifying encounter with Lorenzo Castillo was just a bad dream.

But the feeling of his gaze, dark and predatory, lingered in her mind like a phantom touch. It wasn’t just his words that haunted her—it was the power in them, the way he had claimed her without hesitation. Her mind raced, trying to find an explanation, any reason for why she was here. But she already knew the answer. She was his now, whether she liked it or not.

Isabella sat up, the cold of the polished floor beneath her feet snapping her out of the daze. Her mind felt heavy with confusion, but she couldn’t afford to let herself get lost in it. There were more important matters at hand now. She had to stay sharp, to remember her purpose here. She was not a guest in this mansion. She was a possession—something Lorenzo could control, something he could break at will.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts. She stood, walking toward it with a hesitance she couldn’t quite shake off. She knew it was him, or someone acting on his orders. A maid stood on the other side when she opened the door, her eyes trained on the floor.

“Señorita, la señora Castillo desea verla en el jardín.”

The words sounded like a summons. Isabella nodded curtly, swallowing the knot in her throat. She was no longer in control. She had to obey.

“Gracias,” Isabella said, her voice steady, though the back of her neck prickled with anticipation.

The maid led her down the long corridor, her soft footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The mansion’s walls were adorned with gold-framed portraits of past Castillos, each painting staring down at Isabella with impassive eyes, as if reminding her of her place in this house. The marble floor beneath her feet gleamed in the dim light, and she tried to ignore the strange discomfort that churned in her stomach.

The air grew cooler as they exited into the sprawling garden. Isabella was struck by the beauty of the estate—an oasis surrounded by high, wrought-iron gates that shut the outside world away from the opulent realm of the Castillo family. The garden was a riot of color: roses, lilies, and jasmine all fighting for attention. Yet, all Isabella could focus on was the figure standing by the fountain in the center of it all. Lorenzo.

He was as imposing as ever, his tall frame framed by the vibrant greenery, but it was his presence that overshadowed everything else. There was no escaping him. Even in the soft morning light, his eyes gleamed with a dangerous intent, studying her every move as though she were prey.

Lorenzo turned to face her as she approached, his dark eyes locking onto hers immediately, a slow smile spreading across his face as if he had been waiting for her all along. His gaze was sharp, and she felt an uncomfortable heat rush to her cheeks.

“Good morning, hermosa,” he greeted, his voice smooth, dark, like liquid velvet.

The word hermosa hung in the air between them, thick with meaning. Isabella froze, her heart stuttering in her chest. He said it so casually, but she knew what it meant. He was marking her, claiming her with that one word.

“Good morning,” she replied, though her voice trembled slightly, betraying the anxiety she felt. She forced herself to stand tall, not allowing him the satisfaction of seeing her nervousness.

Lorenzo studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes moving slowly over her like a predator assessing its prey. Isabella stood motionless, trying to ignore the shiver that ran down her spine at the weight of his gaze.

“You look beautiful today,” he said, his voice low, almost intimate.

Isabella bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to tell him to stop, to push him away. She wasn’t here to be praised. She wasn’t here for his compliments.

“Thank you,” she replied curtly, her voice more confident now, even as the nerves fluttered in her stomach. She would not let him have that control over her.

Lorenzo smiled, but it was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stepped closer, his presence making her feel small and insignificant in comparison. She could feel the heat of his body radiating toward her, making her heart race in a way she couldn’t control.

“You’ll get used to this,” he said, his voice a soft growl. “This is my world, Isabella. And soon enough, you’ll learn that it’s a world you can’t escape from.”

His words were a warning, but there was an undeniable certainty in them that made her breath catch. Lorenzo wasn’t asking for her cooperation—he was demanding it.

Isabella tried to take a step back, but he reached out, grabbing her arm and pulling her gently toward him. His touch was firm, unyielding. She looked up at him, her pulse quickening with a mixture of fear and anger.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice strained but steady. It wasn’t the first time she had asked herself that question, but now, standing in front of him, it felt more urgent than ever.

Lorenzo’s lips curled into a smile, but there was no humor in it. “I want you to understand something, Isabella,” he said, his tone dark and possessive. “You are not like the others. You won’t be treated like the others.”

He stepped closer, their faces only inches apart now. Isabella’s breath caught in her throat as he looked down at her, his gaze intense, unrelenting.

“You are mine now,” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “Mine to protect, to control… to break if I have to.”

Isabella’s stomach dropped at his words. She wanted to scream, to tell him that he couldn’t control her, that she would never submit to him. But the reality of her situation settled on her like a weight, and she knew that the more she resisted, the harder it would be. She was already trapped.

“You’ll learn to accept it,” he continued, his fingers grazing her cheek with a tenderness that sent a shiver down her spine. “You’ll be my angel, Isabella. My Ángel. And that name is mine to use, and mine alone.”

She stiffened at the word, feeling a surge of heat spread through her chest. Ángel. The word sounded like a prayer on his lips, and it sent a cold chill through her. She was his Ángel—his possession. No one else could call her that. It was his claim, and there was no escaping it.

“No one else will call you that,” he added, his voice barely a whisper. “Only me. Understood?”

Isabella’s mouth went dry. She wanted to protest, wanted to scream that she was not his to name, to own. But the truth of it all hit her in a way that made her knees weak.

“Yes,” she whispered, barely able to get the word out.

Lorenzo’s smile deepened, satisfaction radiating from him as he took a step back. “Good,” he said. “Now, go inside and wait for me. I have business to attend to.”

She nodded, her legs unsteady beneath her as she turned away. Her heart hammered in her chest as she walked back toward the mansion, her mind racing. She didn’t know what was worse—being his Ángel or knowing that there was no way out of this.

The game had begun. And she was playing by his rules now.