The Suarez Myth: Chapter 6

The water had gone cold long before she stepped out, but she hadn’t noticed. The sound in her head had gone quieter too, the way the world sometimes goes still after a scream. In that silence, she thought of his voice again, always calm, always right, and told herself this might be what safety feels like, like silence that burns and soothes at once.

Again, days became weeks and her body mended, mostly. 

+

The twins brought the era of temperature control with their birth. 

Saoirse now stayed in Barcelona almost all the time, and Roman would fly in and out for a couple of days each month. They never talked about it, this new order, never decided together on the ridiculous schedule, but one day, it simply was.

The Barcelona villa moved completely different from how it was when Amancio and Allegra ruled it. Roman’s reign was disinfected, clocked, and quietly efficient precision. The twins’ monitors chimed every four hours, bottles were sterilized on schedule, the new housekeeper moved like breath itself, omnipresent, unobtrusive. Even the sunlight seemed filtered through invisible hands. The central air stayed fixed at 22 degrees, the number Roman had chosen for optimal infant regulation.

After Amancio’s death, all the houses changed temperature, the security staff tripled, new faces appeared in the rotation, men in dark linen uniforms and earpieces, men who bowed to Roman and kept their eyes lowered. In Madrid, Isabella spoke to her less and less, and the chefs began plating every meal with an almost ceremonial symmetry.

The quiet made Saoirse ache. Every sound that wasn’t a baby’s cry seemed to belong to him. Sometimes, she’d walk the Barcelona courtyard with Lisa and the babies, watching guards pace the perimeter like metronomes. Roman trusted Marco Alvarez most of all, who’d arrived shortly before the twins’ birth. Javier had informed her he was their head of perimeter systems now.

He was not as deferential as the other guards, the kind of man who had already worked under too many masters to bother performing loyalty. He managed the biometric sensors, the motion grids, the AI-assisted feeds Roman monitored from afar. 

The guards who’d worked here longer treated her like a sainted relic, something never to be approached. Marco spoke to her like a person, and it felt like a small mercy. He lingered to double-check the courtyard locks, to explain the motion sensors with patient precision, to offer the simplest courtesies. Would she like him to move the umbrella closer to the pram, did the noise from the north wall bother her? She said thank you, always thank you, always softly.

The twins were sleeping when the phone rang.

Not the house line, her personal one, the one she’d stopped using so often she almost didn’t recognize the sound.

Nina.

She hesitated before answering, glancing once at the nursery monitor, then at the clock. 11:07 a.m. London would be an hour behind. She imagined Nina sitting cross-legged on her sofa, mug in hand, light slanting through a window cluttered with plants, the leaves of the overgrown monstera she’d once named Basil, mind heavy with projects and traffic and appointments. The thought made her chest ache.

“Hi, stranger.”

Saoirse smiled before she could help it. “Hi.”

“You sound half-asleep,” Nina teased. “Or drugged.”

“Neither. Just… quiet morning.”

“Quiet house, you mean.” Nina laughed softly. “God, it still feels weird to imagine you surrounded by people in uniforms. I picture you giving orders in diamonds.”

“Hardly. They all give orders to me.” Saoirse laughed a little. “It’s just very quiet here. The babies are finally down.”

“Quiet sounds like heaven,” Nina said softly. “Mine’s chaos. My flatmate’s cat had kittens, and the whole place smells like milk and sawdust.”

Saoirse laughed again, low and careful. “You make it sound nice.”

“It is. Messy, but nice. You’d hate it. Don’t forget deadlines and neighbours fighting about recycling bins!”

Saoirse smiled. “I almost miss that kind of noise.”

A pause. Then Nina said, half-joking, half-sincere, “You okay?”

Saoirse hesitated. “I think so. The twins are thriving.” She laughed too quickly, as if to prove it didn’t sting.

They talked for a while about nothing, about London rain, Nina’s first solo investigative report, the twins’ new sleep pattern, the new cleaner Nina could barely afford but adored, the army of Suarez staff Saoirse was beginning to fear could stage an insurrection, the way Nina’s editor had accidentally sent her flowers meant for another reporter. Nina described a little café she’d started writing in again. Saoirse kept her answers short, practiced, gentle, but Nina had known her too long to miss the spaces between words.

“So,” Nina said finally, lowering her voice, “How’s… you know, the two of you?”

Saoirse leaned back against the chaise, eyes on the monitor, staring at the two tiny forms breathing in rhythm. “Fine,” she said.

“Fine, how?”

“The usual way.”

“That’s not an answer,” Nina said lightly. “You sound like you’re reciting your press statement.”

Saoirse smiled faintly. “You’d make a terrible diplomat.”

“I’m serious. You’ve been married almost three years. Twins, a villa, all that. You’re allowed to brag a little. You sound…” She stopped herself. “You sound lonely.”

“I’m just tired,” Saoirse corrected softly.

The silence stretched. Saoirse could hear Nina exhale, that careful, thinking kind of breath. “You sound different. Maybe not ‘bad’ different, just... far away.”

Saoirse hesitated. “It’s been a long few months.”

“Twins will do that.”

“Twins, and…” Saoirse stopped, not sure what she’d been about to say. “Roman’s been traveling more.”

“Of course he has,” Nina said gently. “He’s running empires. You’re allowed to miss him.”

“I do,” Saoirse said, her voice so quiet it surprised even her. She looked toward the door, her voice dropping even lower. “I miss him in the strangest ways. His smell, his hands, the way he looks at me before touching me. It’s been… months.”

Nina stilled. “Months since…?”

“Since he’s touched me,” Saoirse said simply, without complaint, without drama, as if stating weather. “Before the twins were born, and now, after. I don’t mind. He says rest is important.”

There was a soft hum on the other end, a pause that wasn’t silence, just care. Then Nina said gently, “That must be hard, though. I mean… you still need warmth.”

“I have it,” Saoirse said automatically, her tone calm, almost serene. “He’s kind. He’s just… careful. I think he’s protecting me from… something.”

We’ll wait for you to heal properly, he’d said a month after the twins were born, and she’d appreciated it then.

Nina let out a quiet breath, the kind that meant she was biting back a dozen questions. “You always see the best in people,” she said finally, in a voice that was almost fond. “Despite all you’ve been through. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

Saoirse smiled faintly. “I don’t know if it’s that, or if I’ve just learned not to ask too much.”

“Still,” Nina said softly, “You deserve to feel wanted, not just safe.”

Saoirse’s throat tightened. “I am safe.”

“I know,” Nina said quickly, backpedaling, her tone soothing again. “Of course you are. I’m just saying… I miss hearing you laugh like you used to. That’s all.” There was silence on the line, the kind that ripples when someone is choosing their words carefully, before Nina continued softly, “Is this normal for him?”

“I don’t know what normal is anymore.”

“Christ.” Nina’s voice softened. “You’re 24, not 54. You can’t live like some widow in pearls. How do you… cope?”

Saoirse blinked, startled by the question. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

She laughed again, nervous now. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re lying.” Nina’s voice had that old warmth, the one that once got her through memories of her grandmother, of Sinead’s flat, of her first heartbreak. “Look, maybe he’s stressed, fine. But… you can’t just stop being a person. He’s not God.”

“Don’t say that,” Saoirse whispered too fast.

Nina sighed. “Sorry. It’s just… sometimes, you talk about him like he’s air and you’re lungs. Doesn’t that scare you?”

Saoirse nodded, still smiling faintly, as if it were nothing. “It’s not strange, really. He’s careful. He worries too much.”

“About what?” Nina asked softly.

“About everything,” Saoirse said. “He thinks if we control the details, nothing can go wrong. I think that’s his way of loving.”

Nina hesitated. “Maybe it is,” she said slowly. “But still… you must miss him.”

“Of course,” Saoirse said quietly. “I miss him all the time.”

The line went still for a heartbeat. Then Nina said, her tone careful and kind, tired of running around in circles with her dearest friend, “You said he travels a lot more. Maybe there’s… someone he leans on out there. I don’t mean it badly. Men get lonely too.” Saoirse didn’t answer. Outside, a gull cried. Then Nina added, softer, almost apologetically, “You ever think maybe there’s someone else?”

The question landed like a stone in water, soundless but deep. Saoirse smiled automatically, even though Nina couldn’t see it. “He’s not like that.”

“Men are all like that,” Nina said, with the weary authority of someone who’d seen enough to mean it. “Especially rich ones who travel and have assistants.”

“He’s not…” Saoirse trailed off, then steadied her tone. “He’s careful. He wouldn’t risk… anything.” She gave a small, nervous laugh. “You think he doesn’t want me?”

“I think he lives a life that doesn’t leave room for witnesses, and maybe that kind of life needs… distractions,” Nina said, voice soft but clear, choosing each word, “I think sometimes withholding is just another way of reminding you who decides.”

“That’s not fair,” Saoirse whispered, more to herself than to Nina.

“Neither is being 24 and already whispering,” Nina replied. She hesitated, then laughed weakly to dissolve the tension. “Well, if you ever get bored of being worshipped, I know at least three decent men who’d die to bring you coffee.”

“I already have someone who brings me coffee.”

“Yeah,” Nina said, dryly. “That’s what worries me.” They laughed, but Saoirse’s laughter came out too light, too polished, before they both fell quiet. “I just hope you’re still in there somewhere. That’s all.”

“I am,” Saoirse whispered. “I think I am.”

They spoke for a few minutes more about Nina’s brother’s engagement, the bookstore down the street that had finally reopened, a bad date she’d barely survived, a bakery she’d found in Camden that sold perfect cherry tarts, the joy of sleeping through an entire night for the first time in weeks. 

Saoirse laughed where she should, responded warmly, but every word left her feeling further from the sound of her own life. She listened to it all like a person pressing her ear to a door, trying to catch the sound of a world she used to belong to, like someone sitting at the edge of a lake, dipping her fingers in the water of another life.

When they hung up, she sat there for a long time, staring at the phone, at the pale reflection of her own face in the dark phone screen, the quiet wrapping back around her like gauze. The call log glowed faintly, Nina — 42 minutes. It had felt like five. 

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

Lisa and her assistant stood in the doorway, one holding David in her arms, the other Mariana drowsing against her shoulder. “They’re both awake early, Señora.”

“Bring them here,” Saoirse said, rising quickly, almost grateful for the interruption.

Lisa crossed her private living room, easing David into the bassinet by the window, as Lucia, the other nanny, passed Mariana, whose eyes blinked up at the ceiling light as if startled by its brightness, into Saoirse’s waiting arms. The baby’s weight surprised her. It was heavier now, more certain. Saoirse sat on the chaise, holding her daughter close, inhaling the faint scent of milk, powder and clean linen, her silk robe pooling around them like water, the baby’s warmth seeping through it.

“There now. Always on your own schedule,” she whispered. “See? Mama’s still here.” Mariana blinked up at her, eyes unfocused but intent, as if she knew her mother’s voice already. She made a small cooing sound. Saoirse smiled, brushing a fingertip along her brow and down her cheek. “You have his eyes,” she whispered. “You’ll have his steadiness too, won’t you?”

David made a small hiccuping sound and stirred, his little fist curling near his face. Saoirse leaned over to touch his cheek, light as breath. “He calls you both perfect,” she murmured. “He hasn’t seen you in two weeks, but he says it every time we speak. Perfect.”

Mariana clenched her tiny fist around the gold chain of Saoirse’s dressing gown. The touch startled her as so human and deliberate. Saoirse smiled faintly, swaying her in a slow rhythm. She pressed her lips to Mariana’s temple, inhaled her skin again, then looked toward the window. “But he’s never here to see you.”

Lisa smiled faintly from the doorway. “He asks after them every day, Señora.”

Saoirse nodded. “I know.”

It was true. Roman’s voice on the phone was always gentle, the questions exact. Are they feeding well? Is their sleep regulated? Are they responding to light? Every word sounded like care measured in clinical precision. When he last saw them, two weeks ago, for 17 minutes between flights, he touched each of their heads with his fingertips, the way one might test the temperature of water. “Perfect,” he’d said. And then, he’d kissed Saoirse’s temple and left.

Now, she sat between their small, warm bodies and thought of how strange it was that she could miss a man who was everywhere, in the air, the rules, the walls, and yet, never beside her.

For a while, she just rocked Mariana gently. David squirmed in the bassinet, so she began to hum an old tune her grandmother used to sing, something about roses and wind. It had no words she could remember, just a rhythm that steadied her breath yet trembled in her throat unfinished. The sound filled the room, soft and unsteady, like a ghost relearning language.

Outside, a shadow moved past the courtyard window, the movement caught her eye. Marco, a tall figure in dark linen, his earpiece glinting in the light, digital tab in hand, walking the perimeter with some guards again. He turned once toward the house.

Saoirse’s hum faltered. She met his brief, unreadable glance through the glass.

He passed the window twice, the first time slow, the second faster, before disappearing around the corner. The faint static of his earpiece bled into the silence. Somewhere deeper in the house, a door clicked shut. The moment felt like something closing.

Lisa adjusted the thermostat by instinct, returning it to 22 degrees.

Saoirse looked down at her children, their eyes half-lidded, bodies soft with trust, and felt a strange ache she couldn’t name. Was it love, fear or longing, or all of it braided into something that almost resembled calm?

When they began to fuss, Saoirse kissed Mariana’s head, handed her back to Lucia, and stood to take David out of the bassinet. She rocked him mindlessly, tutting as she crossed to the window. The courtyard was empty again, washed in perfect winter light. The sea beyond it shimmered faintly, sunlight fractured over the water like broken glass.

For a moment, she thought of calling Nina back. Then she didn’t.

She turned around and saw it, a slim glass vase on a side table that hadn’t been there before. Inside, six yellow roses, their petals freshly cut, stems trimmed to equal height. She didn’t bother to ask who put them there just now, but her pulse caught. There was no card this time, no note, just the faint trace of cologne in the air. 

She stared at them for a long moment as David fussed harder in her arms, cooing and reaching toward her face. Yellow, the color of apology, or hope, or warning. She couldn’t decide which. She gently handed David back to Lisa without looking at her. She moved closer, touched one rose petal lightly with her fingertip. It was cool, almost waxen.

A memory surfaced of her grandmother’s voice, soft and raspy with age: They thrive on neglect, you know. Too much love, and they rot.

Saoirse looked at the roses, her reflection caught faintly in the glass, and for a moment couldn’t tell which one of them looked more alive. The house resumed its rhythm, and the roses stood there, Roman’s presence, distilled into silence, fragrant and bright against the white walls, reminding her that even from far away, he never stopped arranging her world.

The house resumed its rhythm and she, once again, belonged to it, and the air held steady at 22 degrees.

+

She tried to write.

The old leather notebook still sat on her desk, the one Roman had bound for her for their first anniversary. She opened it now, half-expecting to find something waiting there, but the pages were blank except for his neat inscription on the flyleaf: 

Who am I? She wondered as she picked up her pen, twirled it once, then set it down again. Lately, when she tried to write, all her thoughts came out sounding like him. Even her metaphors seemed to seek his approval. Even her imagination had been tamed into symmetry. She no longer reached for words the way she once had. Now, they arrived sparse and already filtered, like air through the ducts that kept the house at its perfect temperature, careful to offend no one.

She pushed away from the desk and wandered through the nursery instead.

She strayed past Lisa and Lucia and the nurses, into the babies’ closets filled with tiny cardigans from Paris still tagged, miniature silk booties arranged by color, rows of pale wooden hangers holding cashmere sets in every neutral shade. The week they were born, a nurse had shown her a drawer of monogrammed linen bibs embroidered with the twins’ initials in gold thread ordered by the Suarez estate. The sight had made her laugh then. Now, it only made her tired.

Each item was exquisite, handmade, untouched. There was nothing in the room that had ever known dirt, or struggle, or warmth. She ran her fingers along a row of folded blankets that were gifts from Roman’s business partners, from monarchs and ministers, all catalogued in an Excel sheet she’d never seen.

The wealth of it no longer shocked her. It only blurred the edges of reality, like light passing through glass too thick to see clearly. 

She stepped back out into the main nursery bedroom and spoke briefly with Lisa about vaccination schedules that had already been booked and arranged by Roman’s personal staff. None of it needed her input.

She moved next to the south drawing room and sat at the grand piano, Allegra’s piano, its ivory keys gleaming under the filtered afternoon sun. The staff kept it perfectly tuned and polished though no one ever played. Roman once told her Allegra had imported the instrument from Vienna decades ago, when she still played semi-professionally. Saoirse sat and pressed one key, then another. The sound floated up, echoing softly through the empty rooms, small and pure, and for a moment she closed her eyes.

When she was younger, she used to believe art could save her, that words, music, beauty could redeem anything if she reached far enough inside it. Now, she wasn’t sure what she believed.

She began an old Irish melody, one her grandmother had hummed while going through her old letters from when she was a young wartime typist. Saoirse couldn’t quite remember all the notes, so she improvised where memory failed her. Her fingers hesitated, restarted, faltered again. The sound was too uncertain. She’d never learnt formally, after all.

She paused, her hands still on the keys, staring at her reflection in the piano’s black lacquer. Her face looked calm, obedient. He would like that, she thought. The thought frightened her for the first time.

She stood, moved to the mirror near the window, adjusted the sleeve of her silk robe. In the reflection behind her, the only living things were plants and old paintings and sculptures of those who once lived. She wondered which group she most fit in with. When the air system clicked on, she felt it, that faint sigh that filled the entire house.

She thought of Nina’s words, of Roman with another woman, of the question she hadn’t answered. Don’t you miss being wanted? It rippled through her, then dissolved.

Later, she wandered to the den that had once been Amancio’s domain, the only space in the entire villa with a television. She turned it on for background noise. The afternoon light had gone soft and amber through the curtains. The house was quiet except for the hum of the air system and the nursery monitor she carried around everywhere.

The large flat telly murmured softly, one of those international business channels Roman preferred, all crisp voices and neutral suits. She wasn’t watching what was on, not really. It was just noise, the hum of a world still spinning, until the anchor said his name.

“Roman Suarez, chief executive of Suarez Group, met with senior partners in Milan earlier today to finalize a string of high-value acquisitions in the global banking sector. The 39-year-old investor has become known for his discreet style and record-breaking turnaround projects across Europe.”

The screen showed him for less than a minute, shaking hands, stepping through a glass atrium, cameras flashing like rain. He looked immaculate, composed, the calm center of every frame. He smiled briefly as he greeted someone off-camera, a gesture both genuine and distant. 

The reporter’s voice added, “Mr. Suarez is expected to attend a private EU gala tonight with other international partners before returning to Spain later this week.”

Saoirse leaned forward unconsciously. His posture was easy. His smile came quickly but gracefully. She had forgotten how alive he could look, in a way she hadn’t seen in months, head slightly bent toward another executive, smiling faintly as though the air itself bent toward him. His voice, even through the grainy audio, sounded warm, practiced, sure.

The broadcast cut to footage from a Suarez Foundation gala. Roman, tall in a black tuxedo, his smile that knew exactly how much warmth to ration per handshake. Cameras flashed on. The announcer’s voice described him as “a man of exceptional restraint and precision, the steady hand behind Europe’s quietest empires…” She muted the sound and watched him a moment longer.

He turned slightly toward a group of executives, his hand gesturing mid-sentence. It was such a small movement, yet something inside her twisted. She studied his face, the way he seemed fully present in that world. The man on screen looked untouchable. The man she slept beside was made of distance. There was no distance in him here, no restraint that looked like care. She wondered if he had already called the florist by the time this video was shot, or if the roses had been arranged automatically by someone else’s efficiency.

The footage ended, and the next segment began, something about rising oil futures, but she was still staring at the screen. The bracelet on her wrist caught the fading light, sapphire and diamond flickering like breath, the one that had belonged to his mother and beloved grandmother. She turned it slowly, as if testing its weight, and watched the reflections move across her skin. It was beautiful and heavy.

She’d always thought of their lives as him taking trips and returning home when his business was done. But watching him just now, he’d looked more like he lived another life entirely and only dropped by in this one for momentary visits. The thought made her shake inside.

Saoirse sat back, her hands folded in her lap. She reached for the remote and turned the TV off. The screen went black, leaving only her reflection, pale, composed, a woman inside a perfect frame. For a while, she didn’t move. Then she rose, crossed the quiet room, and walked toward the window overlooking the courtyard. She saw more of the yellow roses, fresh from that morning’s unseen delivery, luminous against the dimming sky. She reached out, brushed one petal with her fingertip. 

Her grandmother’s voice surfaced in that quiet, cracked, inevitable way: They thrive on neglect, you know. Too much love and they rot. She pressed her hand against the window’s glass, cool against her palm, and whispered almost to herself as a kind of admission, “Too much love, and they rot.” 

Outside, the sea murmured beyond the walls, endless and unreachable. She looked at the flowers for a long time, the color bleeding into the air like an old memory, and wondered if she’d already learned how to bloom that way.

+

It was 3:11 a.m.

Marta, the Barcelona housekeeper, kept the villa’s night rhythm by heart, the soft sweep of the vast hallway lights dimming, the hum of the sterilizers in the nursery wing, the whisper of the sea through the east windows, nothing ever broke that pattern… until the Señora began to wander.

At first, Marta thought she was dreaming, a pale figure gliding past the stairwell, barefoot, robe trailing, no light except the blue glow from the baby monitor Saoirse carried like a candle. She moved slowly, like someone searching for something she’d misplaced long ago.

Marta froze behind the kitchen doorway, afraid to startle her. She wasn’t supposed to be awake herself, but she’d wanted a hot cup of tea to ease her cramps. It wasn’t her place to speak unless spoken to, but she couldn’t look away. The Señora paused before the long glass doors that opened toward the sea, one hand pressed to the pane, as if testing whether it was still there.

On the counter, the roses Roman had sent two days earlier had begun to wilt, their heads bowed, their scent heavy and sweet. Marta had meant to discard them before morning, but something in the way Saoirse looked at them made her stop.

The Señora reached for one, just one, and lifted it gently by the stem. A petal fell, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her other hand traced the marble edge of the counter, the faintest sound against stone, the kind of sound Marta associated with loneliness bordering on madness.

Then Saoirse did something stranger, she began to hum very quietly, a tune with no words. It was slow, repetitive, almost childlike. It was also the first human noise Marta had heard in the villa that didn’t sound rehearsed.

She wanted to step forward, to ask if the Señora needed tea too, but fear stopped her, fear of disrupting whatever small private rebellion this was, fear that if the Señor heard, if the guards reported that the Señora was not sleeping at night, there would be questions. So she watched in stillness as Saoirse crossed the kitchen to the piano room, humming all the way.

Through the open doorway, Marta could see her sit down, brush dust from the keys, and press one, just one, note. It rang, pure and trembling. Another petal fell to the floor. Marta stood there a moment longer, clutching her empty mug to her chest, listening to that single sound fade.

Then, with the quiet discipline the house demanded, she turned off the corridor light and pretended she’d seen nothing.

In the morning, she would tell the maids to replace the roses, to reset the thermostat, to bring order back to the room. But as she walked away now, Marta whispered to herself, “Poor girl doesn’t sleep because her life already dreams for her.”

Marco saw it too.

From his post near the eastern gate, he watched the reflection of the sea on the glass walls. Every so often, the cameras would flicker, showing small moving silhouettes inside, maids changing linens, a guard patrolling the back gardens, the Señora walking around dead in the night again, when everyone else had finally retired.

She always walked the same way, slowly, aimlessly, barefoot, as if every tile remembered her weight.

Tonight she paused by the fountain, the one they said Amancio Suarez had imported from Florence. The water was still running, the Señora dipped her fingers into it, tracing circles. He saw her look up toward the nursery window, where a soft light still glowed.

Marco exhaled through his nose. A mother who never sleeps, he thought. And a husband who never stays.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to look for long, but his eyes lingered anyway. The cameras were set at angles that wouldn’t catch his face, and the other guards had drifted toward the rear perimeter. He allowed himself the smallest disobedience of watching her and not her security grid.

She looked… lost, yes, but there was a quiet dignity to the way she held herself, robe pressed against her, hair loose, eyes fixed somewhere only she could see.

He’d seen women like her before, wives of men who owned half of Europe, mothers of heirs who would never know a moment’s hunger. They all had that same look once the house got too quiet, a stillness that came after too much wanting, too much being told that wanting itself was dangerous.

He thought of his daughter, 12 now, with her noisy laughter and mismatched socks.

No one had ever given him anything without expecting something back. No one but this woman. He looked up at her again through the glass. She was touching the petals of a rose laid out in a crystal vase near the stairs. The yellow ones had wilted two days ago. The Señor sent new ones now every three mornings, a ritual the staff obeyed like prayer.

The Señora pressed one petal between her fingers, almost reverent. Even from where he stood, he could see the moment her shoulders fell, the smallest sigh. He wondered if the Señor knew what he’d built here, a fortress so perfect it kept out air itself. And if he did know, whether he thought it was love.

The cameras whirred softly above him, refocusing. Marco straightened his posture, turned his gaze back to the gate. In the glass reflection, he saw Saoirse lift the rose to her face and breathe it in. For a fleeting second, she smiled. Marco swallowed hard. The gesture was so small it hurt.

He murmured a quiet prayer under his breath, the kind his mother used to say when crossing paths with ghosts. “Dios la guarde,” he whispered. May God keep her. 

The motion sensor clicked back on. The fountain lights steadied. By morning, she would vanish again into routine, and the roses would be trimmed before anyone could see how many had fallen.