Silk and Embers

Chapter Ten

The Wolf’s Snare

The Andalusian sun was deceptive that morning—bright and warm, as though the storm of Barcelona hadn’t rattled Spain’s fashion world to its core.

In Seville, the Montoya hideout—an old studio tucked behind a crumbling Moorish arch—was buzzing with cautious optimism. Bolts of silk and flamenco skirts were draped over chairs; Carmen and Rosa were sketching furiously at the long table.

But Mateo Ajero was not sketching. He was leaning back in a rickety chair, boots propped on the edge of the table, whistling a tune while twirling a seam ripper between his fingers. His grin was as indecent as the comments he tossed across the room.

Careful with that neckline, Carmen, he teased, or Paris will faint. Though, he added with a wink, if you want men fainting, you could always let me model it first.

Carmen rolled her eyes but hid a smile. Isabella, perched by the window with a steaming cup of café con leche, tried not to laugh. She loved this side of him—the outrageous flirt who could make a tense room feel alive again. He was randy, yes—scandalously so—but there was a sweetness behind the bravado, a way he could uncoil the knots in her chest with a single grin.

Her phone buzzed. The name flashing on the screen made her stomach clench: Sofía Montoya, her cousin and closest confidante since childhood. Isabella stepped into the corridor to answer.

Sofía, she said softly, are you all right?

Sofía’s voice was low, urgent. Isa, you need to be careful. Rafael is moving. He’s meeting with members of your father’s old board today.

Isabella’s fingers tightened around the phone. He’ll try to poison them against me.

That’s not all, Sofía whispered. Someone close to you is feeding him information. Someone in your circle.

The words hit harder than any headline. Isabella’s mind flicked through faces—Carmen? Rosa? Diego? Mateo? No—she shut that thought down immediately. Not Mateo. Not after everything.

Do you know who? She pressed.

There was a pause. I… I can’t be sure yet. But Rafael’s offering money and power. He wants you ruined before Paris.

Across the city, Rafael De León swirled Rioja in a crystal glass, the morning sun igniting crimson sparks in the wine. He was a man who understood timing—how to pull threads until a tapestry unraveled. The betrayal he had arranged was already in motion, an elegant trap set to spring at just the right moment.

Let her think she’s safe, he told his assistant. The higher she climbs, the harder the fall.

Back at the studio, Isabella returned to find Mateo standing on a table, demonstrating a pose for the younger models—shirt untucked, buttons undone to scandalous effect. The girls were giggling helplessly.

Mateo! Isabella protested, though a laugh slipped past her lips.

He jumped down, landing lightly. What? Paris wants exotic? I’m just giving them a preview. His amber eyes glinted as he stepped close, lowering his voice so only she could hear. You’re staring, Montoya.

Am not, she whispered, heat creeping up her neck.

His grin turned wicked. Then stop biting your lip like that. You’ll start rumors.

For a heartbeat, the weight of betrayal and politics melted. She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in his teasing warmth, to let him kiss away the shadows Sofía’s warning had cast. But she couldn’t ignore the tension coiling in her chest.

Mateo’s hand brushed her lower back—a casual, protective touch that sent a shiver up her spine. Whatever’s troubling you, he murmured, we’ll handle it.

She met his gaze, uncertain if she should share Sofía’s warning yet. Instead, she let herself lean into him for a brief, stolen moment.

That afternoon, a courier arrived with an invitation—embossed, gilded, unmistakable. It was from one of the Montoya family’s oldest investors, summoning Isabella to a private strategy session in Madrid. The timing was too perfect. Rafael’s trap had been sprung.

Isabella turned the card over in her hands, the weight of it heavy as lead. She could almost hear Rafael’s mocking voice: Step into my world, little heiress. Let’s see how long you last.

Mateo noticed the flicker of doubt in her eyes. He slipped the invitation from her fingers, skimmed it, and let out a low whistle. The Wolf’s moving faster than we thought.

She nodded grimly. Sofía warned me. Someone’s feeding him information.

Mateo’s playful façade slipped just enough for her to see the steel beneath. Then we don’t go in blind.

He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. His touch was warm, grounding. We’ll face him, Isa. Together.

She squeezed his hand back. Despite the storm gathering on the horizon, a strange calm settled over her. Mateo might be reckless, randy, and infuriating—but he was also the only person who made her believe she could survive the Wolf’s games.

Outside, the Andalusian sky was darkening again, clouds gathering like conspirators. Somewhere in Madrid, Rafael De León was smiling, confident that the snare he’d set would soon tighten.

But as Isabella glanced at Mateo—his grin returning, eyes sparking with mischief even in the face of danger—she felt the first flicker of hope. The Wolf might underestimate a billionaire heiress. But he had no idea how dangerous a randy artisan in love could be.