Katrina

Chapter One

THE WOMAN AT THE DOOR

━━━━━━━ STORY A — THE PRESENT 🖤 ━━━━━━━

The doorbell rang.

Jason McAllister barely glanced up.

He was in the middle of a conversation with his family in the dining room when the bell rang again, a little longer this time. With a quiet sigh, he excused himself and headed towards the front door, already wondering who could possibly be visiting without warning.

He opened it.

And the world stopped.

For a moment, Jason couldn't breathe.

The woman standing before him looked exhausted. Her clothes were scratched and torn, her hair was dishevelled, and her face carried the unmistakable traces of a journey that had taken far more out of her than she could afford to lose.

But none of that mattered.

Because he knew that face.

He knew the shape of her eyes, the curve of her lips, and the features he had once memorised as naturally as he breathed.

He knew her.

He had loved her.

And he had buried her in his heart because he believed he would never see her again.

Yet there she stood.

Alive.

Katrina Mendoza.

His ex-wife.

His greatest love.

The woman he had mourned.

Jason didn't move.

He couldn't.

His mind struggled to reconcile what his eyes were telling him. Perhaps grief had finally found a cruel new way to torment him. Perhaps he was exhausted. Perhaps, after all these years, he had finally lost his mind.

Anything was easier to believe than the impossible.

But she remained there, looking back at him.

Real.

Breathing.

And standing close enough for him to reach out and touch her.

His lips parted, but no words came.

Katrina stared at him.

For one brief, treacherous moment, she forgot every reason she had stayed away. She forgot the hurt, the accusations, the courtroom, and the years she had spent convincing herself that she no longer needed him.

All she saw was Jason.

The man she had loved.

The man she had lost.

The man she had once believed would never hurt her.

Then the memories returned, and her heart hardened around them.

She tightened her arms around the little girl resting against her chest.

Jason noticed the movement.

His gaze dropped.

And for the first time since opening the door, he seemed to remember how to breathe.

There was a child in her arms.

A little girl with her face turned against Katrina's shoulder, her small body heavy with sleep.

Jason looked from the child to Katrina.

Then back at the child.

His expression changed, confusion beginning to break through the shock.

Katrina said nothing.

Neither did he.

Years of unanswered questions stood between them, and neither seemed to know which one deserved to be asked first.

Finally, Jason's eyes returned to hers.

His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.

"Katrina?"

She swallowed.

"Hello, Jason."

Two words.

That was all she gave him.

Two words after years of silence.

Two words to a man who had believed she was dead.

And somehow, they hurt more than all the years he had spent grieving her.

Because she was here.

And he had no idea why.

Katrina shifted the little girl higher in her arms.

"I need to speak to you about something urgent."

Her voice was steady. Almost unnervingly so.

Jason stared at her, still struggling to reconcile the woman before him with the memory he had carried for years.

Urgent?

She had disappeared from his life. He had believed her dead. He had mourned her, suffered because of her, and spent years trying to make peace with a loss he had never understood.

And now she stood at his door, looking as though the world had dragged her through hell and refused to let her rest.

And all she had to say was that she needed to speak to him?

His eyes searched her face, desperate for an explanation, a sign that this was some elaborate mistake, anything that might help him understand what was happening.

But Katrina offered him nothing.

Not yet.

"Come in," he managed.

He stepped aside immediately.

Whatever questions burned inside him, whatever anger or disbelief threatened to overwhelm him, he wasn't going to leave her standing outside.

Not after everything.

Katrina crossed the threshold.

For a moment, she hesitated.

The house was painfully familiar. The furniture, the polished floors, the faint scent lingering in the air—little things she had no business remembering after everything that had happened.

Memories rose without permission.

Laughter.

Arguments.

Arms wrapped around her waist.

A voice murmuring her name against her hair.

She crushed them before they could take hold.

She wasn't here for memories.

She wasn't here for him.

She was here because she had run out of choices.

At least, that was what she told herself.

Jason closed the door behind her.

The click of the lock sounded strangely final.

From the dining room came the faint sound of voices continuing their conversation, unaware of the upheaval that had just entered the house.

Katrina glanced towards the sound.

Jason noticed.

He had almost forgotten that he wasn't alone.

He turned towards her, and for the first time, they stood facing each other without the doorway between them.

He wanted to reach for her.

God, how he wanted to.

To touch her face and prove to himself that she was real. To pull her into his arms and demand to know where she had been. To ask why she had left him with nothing but grief and unanswered questions.

But he didn't move.

Something in her expression warned him that he had already lost the right to reach for her.

His gaze dropped to the child again.

She was small, perhaps three years old, with soft features and a peaceful expression. Her little arms rested around Katrina's neck, and her cheek was pressed against her mother's shoulder.

Mother.

The word surfaced before Jason could stop it.

He looked at Katrina.

Then at the child.

Then back at Katrina.

His jaw tightened.

There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask.

Who was she?

Where had Katrina been?

Why had she come back?

And who was the child's father?

The last question hurt more than he cared to admit.

He had no right to ask it.

Not after the courtroom.

Not after the custody battle.

Not after the things he had said and done to the woman standing before him.

He remembered the pain in her eyes. The devastation he had watched unfold as he convinced himself that taking the children away from her was the right thing to do.

He had once been the man she trusted with everything.

Now, he wasn't even certain he had the right to ask about the little girl in her arms.

And the possibility that Katrina had built a life with someone else—that she might have found another man to love, another man to trust, another man to give her the happiness he had failed to protect—was a thought he could barely bear to entertain.

He had spent years believing he would never see her again.

He had never prepared himself for the possibility that she might return and belong to a life in which he no longer had a place.

So he said nothing.

Not yet.

Jason drew a slow breath.

"Katrina," he said, his voice firmer this time. "What is going on?"

She met his eyes.

For a moment, he caught something beneath the coldness. Something tired, wounded, and terribly close to breaking.

Then it disappeared.

"I told you, Jason. I need to speak to you."

"Then speak."

Her fingers tightened slightly around the little girl.

"Not here."

He glanced towards the dining room.

"Not here?"

"Not where anyone can overhear us."

That gave him pause.

Something about the way she said it made the air between them change.

This wasn't merely an awkward reunion. Whatever had brought Katrina back, she was frightened enough—or desperate enough—to choose the one person she had every reason to avoid.

And Jason knew her well enough to recognise that she hadn't come lightly.

He studied her face.

"All right," he said quietly. "We'll talk somewhere private."

Katrina gave a small nod.

For the first time since arriving, her shoulders loosened by the smallest fraction.

Jason noticed.

He noticed everything about her.

He had spent years wishing he could see her again.

He simply hadn't imagined that, when the moment finally came, he would have no idea how to reach her.

______________________________________________

CHAPTER ONE

THE WOMAN AT THE DOOR

━━━━━━━ STORY B — THE PAST 🥀 ━━━━━━━

Cuba, Years Earlier

In the Mendoza household, silence was a rare and suspicious occurrence.

On most mornings, the house came alive before the sun had fully risen. Doors opened and closed, footsteps thundered down hallways, and at least one person could be heard complaining about something that, more often than not, had been caused by another member of the family.

That morning was no different.

"Gabriel!"

The shout came from somewhere upstairs.

"I'm not touching it!"

"You haven't even seen what I'm talking about!"

"Then how do you know it was me?"

A moment of silence followed.

Then came the unmistakable sound of running feet.

Rafael Mendoza lowered his newspaper.

He sat at the breakfast table, a cup of coffee beside his elbow and the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth.

"Every morning," he murmured.

Across from him, his wife shook her head.

"Your children."

"Our children, mi amor."

"Your son is going to be the death of me."

Rafael folded his newspaper with exaggerated solemnity.

"Gabriel is an innocent young man. I refuse to believe he could be responsible for whatever crime he's been accused of this morning."

Susan stared at him.

"You said the same thing yesterday."

"And I was equally convincing yesterday."

She tried to maintain her stern expression.

She really did.

Unfortunately, her husband had spent years discovering exactly how to make her laugh when she was determined not to.

A smile escaped her.

Rafael reached across the table and caught her hand, lifting it to his lips.

"There she is," he said softly.

Susan rolled her eyes, but she didn't withdraw her hand.

"You're impossible."

"And yet, you married me."

"Sometimes I wonder why."

"Because I'm handsome."

"Arrogant."

"Charming."

"Exhausting."

"Devastatingly handsome."

She laughed, and Rafael looked at her as though that sound remained one of his favourite things in the world.

For all the responsibilities that came with running M&M Grand Hotels, Rafael had never allowed his work to become the centre of his home. There were meetings that demanded his attention, decisions that could affect hundreds of employees, and responsibilities that followed him even when he returned to his family.

But he had one rule.

Whenever he could, he made time for his children.

And his children, unfortunately for his peace of mind, knew it.

"Daddy!"

Three small voices erupted from the hallway.

Rafael barely had time to put down his coffee before three children came charging into the dining room.

Sebastian reached him first, as he usually did. Camila arrived a heartbeat later, already protesting that her brother had pushed past her.

Katrina came last.

Not because she was slower.

Because she had stopped halfway down the hallway to retrieve a small toy she'd dropped.

She entered the room clutching it in one hand, her dark hair tumbling around her face and her green eyes fixed on her father.

"Papa, look!"

Rafael opened his arms.

Katrina abandoned all further consideration for the toy and hurried into them.

He lifted her onto his lap.

"Well, now," he said, settling her comfortably against him. "What have we here?"

She held up her toy with both hands.

"A horse."

Rafael examined it with the seriousness of a man inspecting a multimillion-dollar business acquisition.

"A magnificent horse."

Katrina beamed.

"It has a name."

"Of course it does. A horse of such distinction must have a name."

She leaned towards his ear and whispered it.

Rafael's eyebrows rose.

"An excellent choice."

Camila climbed into the chair beside them.

"You didn't ask to see my drawing."

Rafael turned towards her immediately.

"Then I have committed a terrible crime. May I see it?"

Camila produced her drawing with great ceremony.

Sebastian, unwilling to be left out, began explaining a game he'd invented.

Within seconds, Rafael had three children talking over one another, each convinced that their story deserved his undivided attention.

And somehow, he gave it to them.

He asked Sebastian questions about the game, admired Camila's drawing, and listened to Katrina explain the adventures of her toy horse.

Susan watched them from across the table.

There were moments when she thought she could spend the rest of her life watching Rafael with their children and never grow tired of it.

He was a successful businessman, a respected man, and someone whose decisions carried weight beyond the walls of their home.

But here, surrounded by his children, he was simply their father.

And they adored him for it.

"Rafael," Susan said eventually, "if you continue encouraging them, none of us will ever finish breakfast."

He looked at the children gathered around him.

Then at his wife.

"An unfortunate possibility."

"Rafael."

"Very well." He clapped his hands once. "Everyone to the table."

Three children groaned.

He pointed towards their chairs.

"That includes you, Sebastian."

"I haven't done anything!"

"That is precisely why I am addressing you before you do."

Katrina giggled.

Rafael caught the sound and grinned at her.

"Ah, my little accomplice. You understand me."

She nodded enthusiastically.

Susan sighed.

"You're teaching them to misbehave."

"No, mi amor. I'm teaching them to enjoy life."

"And who will teach them discipline?"

Rafael glanced towards the children, who were now arguing over who would sit closest to him.

He considered the question.

"You?"

Susan threw a napkin at him.

He caught it, laughing.

For a little while, the world was uncomplicated.

There was breakfast to finish, arguments to settle, and a father who promised to take his children out later if they behaved themselves.

There was Susan, pretending not to smile at her husband's antics.

There were children who believed that their home was the safest place in the world.

And there was Katrina.

Little Katrina, who knew nothing about business rivalries, dangerous men, or the secrets that could hide behind a familiar face.

She knew only that her father would lift her when she reached for him.

That her mother would kiss her forehead when she was sleepy.

That her siblings would argue with her one moment and play with her the next.

She believed that love meant people stayed.

That home meant safety.

And that no matter what happened outside their doors, her father would always be there when she needed him.

She had no reason to believe otherwise.

Not yet.