The red camellia sat beside Sofía's wineglass like a dare.
Unspoken. Unclaimed.
Too perfect.
The box had been velvet-black. The flower — blood-deep and freshly cut — still glistened faintly in the candlelight. Its placement was precise, like a sniper shot: directly beside her left hand, close enough to accept, too close to ignore.
The air at the table changed.
Conversation fragmented.
Forks hovered mid-bite. Someone whispered "Valentino" again — this time with real weight, as if the name might be listening.
But Sofía knew the truth.
Not Valentino.
Worse.
She didn't look at Arturo. Not immediately.
That would give it weight too early.
Instead, she reached for her wine glass, sipped slowly, then set it down again beside the box.
And began to turn it.
Once.
Twice.
Three full rotations by the stem.
⸻
Lucía, seated to her left, leaned in.
"Was that really from El Lobo?" she whispered, low and urgent.
"You tell me," Sofía murmured.
"Well, if it was," Paloma said, "I think I just swallowed my tongue."
Isela scoffed. "Please. Valentino doesn't flirt with flowers. He flirts with war."
"Then who—" Paloma began.
Isela's eyes cut to Arturo, who still hadn't spoken.
Sofía smiled.
Subtle. Controlled.
Then she spoke, just loud enough for her cousins:
"Only one man in this room smells like ego, old port, and desperation."
Lucía snorted behind her napkin.
Isela grinned like a blade.
⸻
Across the table, Arturo Camberos finally leaned back in his chair, stretching one arm lazily along the backrest like he wasn't made entirely of sweat and self-importance.
He didn't look at Sofía.
But his voice cut through the room like oil across a still pool.
"Some gestures," he said, "don't need explanation."
He was speaking to the air — to no one, and therefore everyone.
"When a man sees something rare, he gives honor where it's due."
Mateo put his fork down without touching the food.
Isabella didn't react, but her wineglass trembled slightly as she lifted it.
Carmen's eyes, sharp as daggers dulled by patience, didn't blink once.
The silence was elastic. Pulled tight.
And then—
Sofía turned her head.
Directly. At. Him.
Not a glance.
A gaze.
Her pupils steady. Her mouth neutral.
But everything in her posture said: You just stepped too far.
"Honor," she said evenly, "requires taste."
Someone chuckled.
It died in their throat halfway out.
Arturo grinned — the kind of smile men mistake for victory right before it turns into a eulogy.
"There was a time women would've thanked me for such a gift."
"Then I'm sorry you lived so long," she said.
The table froze.
This time completely.
Even the quartet faltered, the cellist missing a half note and trying to recover like no one noticed.
But everyone had.
⸻
Romero, seated at the far end of the table, finally lifted his gaze.
Not surprised.
Not concerned.
Just... focused.
Like someone confirming a calculation.
⸻
No one spoke for a full minute.
No one.
And in that silence, Arturo finally looked at her — for real.
And she looked back, unflinching.
⸻
Isela whispered from behind her hand:
"You're going to get poisoned."
"Then he'd better move fast," Sofía said. "The flower's already dying."
⸻
The room's energy didn't reset. It just... shifted.
Someone changed the topic to foreign oil.
Someone else asked if Carmen would dance later.
But all of it was white noise now.
The flower had been placed.
The insult had landed.
And a fuse, somewhere beneath the table, had been lit.
⸻
Toward the end of the course, Mateo leaned in, still not meeting her eyes.
"Was it from him?"
Sofía didn't need to ask who.
"No," she said, barely moving her lips. "Worse."
He gave a slight nod. As if confirming what he already feared.
⸻
Carmen broke the silence with a sip of her tequila.
"Some men send flowers to plant roots."
Isabella, eyes still on the camellia, added coolly:
"And some to mark territory."
Sofía raised her glass.
Tapped the rim once.
"Then he'd better learn where not to plant."
⸻
The flower remained. Red. Unclaimed.
Its petals had begun to curl slightly at the edges, softening like old lips losing their lie.
And beneath the table, Sofía's fingers curled tight, her right hand sliding across her lap, resting gently over her gloved left.
She didn't crush it.
She didn't move it.
But the message was clear.
Arturo was now on her list.