098

The room was warm with laughter, flickering candlelight reflecting off polished wooden panels and the soft rustle of napkins as dishes were passed from hand to hand. It wasn’t grand—no palace dining hall—but there was something distinctly comforting about Beta Cruz’s quarters: the mismatched armchairs, the scent of rosemary chicken wafting from the kitchen, the faint tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner. The kind of place that felt lived in.

Sandra sat between her mother and Adam, her fingers curled loosely around her water glass. Her mother, Anita, wore a soft pink cardigan and kept dabbing at her lips with a napkin even though she’d barely eaten. Her father, Joseph, had finally relaxed after a second glass of wine, the creases on his forehead easing into something like curiosity. Across from them sat Beta Cruz—Adam’s father—and his wife Luciana, both smiling with a kind of effortless grace that only came with long years of leadership and experience.

"That roast was amazi