Felicity, Trevor’s wife, moved through the mansion with effortless authority. She was polished, articulate, and endlessly composed. Her family came from old money, and she carried that heritage like an invisible shield. To Lucía, Felicity’s politeness always felt conditional, measured, as if kindness were a resource to be rationed. From the moment Dolores arrived, Felicity’s patience thinned. The older woman’s presence disrupted the house’s carefully curated aesthetic. The smell of home cooked food. The sound of old piano pieces drifting through the halls. The visible reminder that love could exist outside ambition.
On that morning, Lucía climbed the stairs and knocked gently on Dolores’s bedroom door. A weak voice answered. Inside, she found Dolores sitting upright in bed, her face pale and drawn, dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“My head feels heavy,” Dolores murmured. “And my stomach will not settle. I barely slept.”