The dining hall of the Cruz estate was made for spectacle.
Thirty feet of ivory linen stretched across a custom-made table, gilded with crystal, gold-leaf plates, and white peonies floating in shallow glass bowls. Waitstaff glided like shadows between guests. The chandelier above refracted the room in hard diamonds. And below it, power shifted in subtle angles — who leaned, who laughed, who poured for whom.
At the head of the table, Carmen Cruz sat like a relic carved into flesh and breath. Crownless, but undeniable.
To her right: Mateo, sharp-suited and silent.
To her left: Isabella, wine in hand, smile practiced.
And next to her—
Sofía.
Like a storm dressed as an afterthought.
⸻
Across the table, Lucía grinned wide, one heel kicked off beneath the cloth.
"Okay, but when were you planning to tell us you came back from the dead?"
"I never died," Sofía replied, dabbing at her lip with her napkin. "I just left."
"Without a word," Paloma chimed in, adjusting her glasses. "Again."
"That's not true," Sofía said. "I sent a card."
"It was blank," Paloma said.
"It was minimalist."
"It was emotionally bankrupt," Isela muttered, sipping her rosé.
Lucía laughed so hard she had to catch her wine before it tipped.
⸻
Sofía smirked, but her posture stayed pristine.
"You all still talk like I left yesterday."
"You left three years ago," Lucía said. "You missed three Christmases, two weddings, a funeral, and the party where Tía Mariana's implants burst during the fireworks."
"I regret missing that one," Sofía admitted.
"She screamed like a soprano," Isela added. "They thought it was a security breach."
"And you missed Paloma's boyfriend disaster," Lucía said with delight.
Paloma groaned. "He was a crypto artist. I thought he was deep."
"He was broke," Isela corrected. "And high."
"And had that awful snake tattoo," Sofía added, surprising them.
Paloma squinted. "Wait... how do you know that?"
Sofía shrugged.
"I read your texts. I still have access."
They stared at her.
Then all three said in unison:
"Bitch."
⸻
For a moment, it was real.
They were just cousins again.
Women raised inside the same bloody inheritance, trading laughs and memories like jewelry they borrowed from their grandmother's drawer.
But the moment didn't last.
Because everyone else at the table was watching.
And the woman in the silver dress wasn't just their cousin anymore.
She was a riddle dressed in politeness. A name with no known address. The daughter of the family's silence.
⸻
The conversation shifted. Someone at the far end started talking politics — gas routes, border crossings, American demands.
Sofía went quiet again.
Not absent.
Just... folded.
⸻
Then came the box.
Black velvet. Placed gently in front of her by a courier in crisp white gloves.
He didn't speak.
He bowed, turned, and walked away without a sound.
The table quieted in ripples. Words vanished mid-sentence. Forks froze. Someone whispered something in Spanish.
Sofía stared at the box.
Mateo turned his head slightly.
Isabella's hand twitched on her stemware.
Carmen didn't blink.
Lucía whispered first:
"Sofía...?"
Paloma leaned in. "What is it?"
"Is that from... him?" Isela muttered.
"Who?" Paloma asked.
Isela's voice dropped. "El Lobo."
Someone on the other side of the table laughed — too loud. Nervous. No one else joined.
Sofía opened the box.
Inside was a single red camellia. Full bloom. Perfect. Just damp enough to feel recently severed.
No card.
No message.
Just the weight of attention crashing into the center of the table.
⸻
Isela swallowed. "So...?"
Lucía's voice was barely a whisper.
"Do you... know who sent that?"
Sofía tilted her head. Closed the box slowly.
"I know," she said softly.
She didn't elaborate.
She didn't smile.
She just placed the box beside her glass, like it was any other gift — like it wasn't a loaded gun wrapped in fragrance.
Then, without looking up:
"Lovely."
And returned to her duck.