BHE | Chapter 4: The Monster She Created

Fatima didn’t flee. Instead, a twisted kind of desperation took root in her. She had seen the raw, unbridled power Paulo possessed, and her humiliation curdled into an obsessive need to possess it, to win the game no matter the cost.

The next afternoon, while Beatriz was occupied with her mother in the main drawing room, Fatima intercepted Paulo in the secluded back garden, near the edge of the estate’s forest.

“How much does she pay you, Paulo?” Fatima asked, stepping out from behind a stone pillar. She looked different today, not a predator but a savior. “Or rather, how much does she own you?”

Paulo didn’t stop his work. He continued to sharpen his shears, the rasp of metal on metal his only response.

“I saw what happened in the cellar,” she continued, moving closer until she was standing just inches away from him. “I saw the way she treats you. Like a dog she lets into her bed only when she wants to feel something ‘primitive.’ You’re a prisoner here, bound by a childhood debt and her family’s name.”

Paulo stopped sharpening and looked at her. His eyes were cold, but Fatima mistook the stillness for interest.

“I have a villa in Spain,” she whispered, her voice urgent. “And an estate in the city. Come with me tonight. I’ll give you a life where you aren’t the ‘hardinero.’ I’ll give you a name, money, and a bed where you aren’t just a secret to be hidden when the lights come on.”

She reached out, her hand trembling as she touched his bicep. “Why be her slave when you can be my king? Beatriz will never respect you. To her, you’re just the dirt beneath her fingernails that she happens to find ‘hot.’ With me, you’d be free.”

Paulo finally spoke, his voice low and dangerous. “You think freedom is changing one cage for another?”

“It’s not a cage if you have everything you want,” she countered, her eyes pleading. “Think about it. No more pruning roses for a woman who would never dare hold your hand in public. Leave her. Let her find out what it’s like to actually be alone.”

Paulo looked toward the mansion, toward the balcony where he knew Beatriz often watched him. A slow, dark smile spread across his face, one that never reached his eyes.

“You really want to know what I want, Miss Lawrence?”

Before Fatima could answer, Paulo dropped the shears. In one swift, violent motion, he grabbed her by the waist and slammed her back against the rough bark of a massive acacia tree.

“You think you’re different from her?” he hissed, his face inches from hers. “You’re both the same. Bored, rich girls looking for a thrill in the mud.”

He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “But there’s one difference. She doesn’t pretend to be a saint. She knows exactly what she is, and she knows exactly what I am.”

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, igniting a terrifying hope. Then his voice turned to ice. “I don’t want your money. And I don’t want your ‘freedom.’ I want her because she’s the only one who can handle the monster she created.”

He released her so abruptly she stumbled.

From the balcony above, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Beatriz stood there, leaning against the railing, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. She had heard everything.

“Paulo!” Beatriz called, her voice dripping with mockery. “The fountain in the courtyard is filthy. Scrub it. Now.”

Paulo looked up at her, pure, hungry submission flashing across his face. “Yes, Señorita.”

He turned back to Fatima, his eyes dead.

The rejection was the final puncture to Fatima’s fragile sanity. Seeing Paulo look at Beatriz with that terrifying, submissive devotion—after she had offered him the world—turned her obsession into a black, poisonous rot. If she couldn’t have the gardener, and if Beatriz wouldn’t stop flaunting her “ownership,” then no one would have anything.

As Paulo walked toward the courtyard and Beatriz turned back into her room, Fatima didn’t head for her car. She headed for the garden shed.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the estate draped in a bruised purple twilight. Beatriz was in her bathroom, the steam from the hot water filling the air. She stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a silk robe, feeling the lingering ache in her muscles from the previous nights.

She heard the door to her bedroom creak.

“Paulo? I told you to wait by the fountain,” she called out, a playful smirk on her lips.

“Paulo isn’t coming,” a voice rasped.

Beatriz spun around. Fatima stood in the doorway, her hair disheveled and her eyes bloodshot. In her hand, she gripped a heavy, serrated pruning knife she’d taken from the shed. The blade glinted dully in the dim light.

“Fatima? What the hell is wrong with you?” Beatriz demanded, stepping back toward the vanity.

“You think you’re so powerful,” Fatima whispered, stepping into the room. “You think you can just play with people and then discard them. You treated me like a joke. You treated him like an animal.”

“Put the knife down, Fatima. You’re spiraling.”

“I offered him everything! And he chose to be your slave!” Fatima screamed, lunging forward.

Beatriz dodged, the blade slicing through the air where she had been standing a second before. She scrambled toward the balcony, screaming for Paulo, but Fatima was faster. She tackled Beatriz to the floor, the two women tumbling across the expensive rug.

Fatima pinned Beatriz down, the knife held high. “If he loves the ‘Señorita’ so much, let’s see how he feels when her pretty face is carved into pieces.”

The door to the bedroom burst open with a violent crash.

Paulo didn’t hesitate. He didn’t shout. He moved like a shadow. He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Fatima’s wrist just as the blade began its descent toward Beatriz’s throat. With a sickening crack, he twisted Fatima’s arm, forcing her to drop the weapon.

He threw Fatima off Beatriz with such force that she slammed into the marble fireplace, collapsing into a heap.

Paulo didn’t go to Fatima. He knelt over Beatriz, his hands shaking as he checked her for wounds. “Are you hurt? Beatriz, look at me!”

Beatriz was gasping for air, her robe torn, her eyes wide with terror. She gripped Paulo’s shirt, pulling him close. “I’m fine… I’m fine…”

He turned his head to look at Fatima, who was groaning on the floor. His face transformed. The “professional” gardener was gone; in his place was a man who looked ready to kill with his bare hands. He stood up, stepping toward the broken woman on the floor.

“Stop,” Beatriz whispered, reaching for his hand.

Paulo froze. His muscles were corded, his jaw set so tight it looked like it might shatter.

“Don’t kill her,” Beatriz said, her voice regaining its cold, sharp edge. “That’s too easy.”

She stood up, leaning against Paulo for support. She looked down at Fatima with utter contempt. “Call the police, Paulo. Tell them a common thief broke in and tried to murder me. And make sure the guards ‘mishandle’ her a little before they arrive.”

An hour later, the sirens faded into the distance. The estate was quiet again.

Beatriz sat on the edge of her bed, watching Paulo as he cleaned a small scratch on her arm. The adrenaline had faded, replaced by a dark, heavy lust. The near-death experience had stripped away the last of their pretenses.

“You saved me,” she murmured.

Paulo looked up, his eyes dark and intense. “I told you. You’re mine. No one touches what’s mine.”

He pulled her into his lap, his hands sliding up her thighs, his touch no longer hesitant. He didn’t wait for a command this time. He claimed her mouth in a kiss that tasted of iron and salt—raw, desperate, and final.

Outside, the wind rustled through the colorful flowers of the garden he tended by day, but inside, the gardener was finally the master of the house.