Six months had passed since the night the sirens echoed through the estate, and the scandal of Fatima Lawrence’s “nervous breakdown” had long since faded from the headlines of the high-society tabloids.
The garden was more beautiful than ever, but the power dynamic within the mansion’s walls had undergone a permanent, unspoken shift.
Beatriz stood on the balcony, watching the sunset bleed slowly into the horizon. She no longer wore the heavy, restrictive silks of her former life; tonight, she wore a simple, loose-fitting linen dress that moved freely with the breeze.
Below, Paulo was finishing his work. He wasn’t just the gardener anymore; he had been moved into a management role overseeing the entire estate staff, though he still preferred the feel of the earth between his fingers.
As the last of the other workers headed to their quarters, Paulo looked up. The silent communication between them was a physical pull neither bothered to resist. He didn’t wait for an invitation. He dropped his tools and headed straight for the grand entrance.
Inside the master suite, the doors were locked. The room was lit only by a few flickering candles. When Paulo entered, he didn’t bow or wait for a command. He walked straight to Beatriz and pulled her into his arms, his touch possessive, certain, familiar.
“You’re late,” she whispered, echoing the words he had once said to her in the library.
“The soil was dry,” he replied, his voice a low vibration against her skin. “It needed more attention.”
He lifted her easily, carrying her to the oversized bed that had once felt so empty. There was no longer any talk of “hampaslupa” or “Señorita.” In the dark, they were equals—two predators who had found their match.
The sex was different now. It had lost the frantic, punishing edge of secrecy and settled into a deep, steady intimacy that was somehow even more intense. He explored her body with the precision of a man who knew every curve of the land he owned, and Beatriz surrendered with a vulnerability she offered no one else.
“I heard Fatima is being moved to a private facility in the south,” Paulo murmured between kisses, his hands tracing the faint, healed scar on her arm—the mark of their shared survival.
“Good,” Beatriz gasped, her back arching as he found a particularly sensitive spot. “Let her stay there. She was never strong enough for this world.”
As they lay together afterward, the moonlight bathing their tangled limbs, Beatriz rested her head on his chest. She listened to the steady, powerful beat of his heart—the heart of the man her mother had “rescued,” but who had ultimately rescued her from a life of cold, gilded boredom.
“Everyone thinks I’m still the one in charge,” she whispered, her fingers idly tracing the callouses on his hand.
Paulo turned his head and kissed her temple. “Let them think that. As long as we both know the truth when the doors are closed.”
He pulled the covers over them, shielding them from a world that would never understand. The gardener and the heiress had built their own paradise, rooted in blood, desire, and a loyalty that wealth could never buy.
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