The Princess Who Burned Her Crown.

Eduardo

Two Days Later

The afternoon sun hung heavy over the ranch, painting the prairie grass in molten gold as the first fireflies of evening blinked to life. Isabella stood at the fence line, her palms raw from helping Tomás mend the split-rail barriers all morning. She'd never known work could feel this satisfying—the ache in her muscles, the way her borrowed flannel shirt stuck to her back with honest sweat, the taste of sun-warmed lemonade Tomás had brought her at midday, his fingers lingering on hers as he passed the mason jar.

The growl of an engine shattered the peace.

Her head snapped up. That sound didn't belong here—the predatory purr of a Maserati's twin-turbo V8, all polished menace and calculated horsepower. The black convertible crested the hill like a panther stalking prey, its chrome detailing flashing as it prowled down the dirt road, kicking up dust that settled on the bluebonnets like toxic snow.

Isabella's nails bit into the weathered wood. She knew that car. Knew the way the suspension absorbed every pebble with million-dollar engineering, just like its owner avoided life's discomforts. Knew the license plate—EDU2023—personalized with the same arrogance that had once made her find it charming.

The door opened with a whisper of Italian leather.

"Isabella."

Eduardo emerged like a corporate assassin, his pearl-gray Armani suit untouched by the journey, his Berluti loafers repelling the dust as if by magic. He removed his Carrera sunglasses with deliberate slowness, revealing eyes the color of a shark's underbelly.

"You look...different," he said, his gaze crawling over her—the messy braid, the sunburned nose, the way Tomás's oversized shirt slipped off one shoulder. His nostrils flared slightly at the scent of woodsmoke and sweat that clung to her.

She crossed her arms, suddenly conscious of her dirt-stained fingernails. "What are you doing here, Eduardo?"

"What am I—?" A dry laugh escaped him, the sound like crumpling parchment. "You disappear for three weeks. No calls. No emails. Your father has half of Interpol on retainer looking for you." He flicked an invisible speck from his sleeve. "And now I find you playing pioneer woman in this...quaint little hovel."

From the barn, the screen door slammed.

Tomás emerged shirtless, his chest gleaming with sweat from repairing the tractor, a wrench still dangling from his fingers. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The way his biceps flexed as he tightened his grip on the tool said everything.

Eduardo's smile turned venomous. "Ah. The hired help."

Isabella stepped between them, her boots kicking up dust. "You don't get to come here and—"

"And what?" Eduardo produced a manila folder from his briefcase. "Remind you of your responsibilities? The Tokyo charity gala next week? The shareholders' meeting?" He flipped it open to reveal a glossy photo of her father standing before their Manhattan penthouse. "He's aged ten years since you left."

Tomás was at her side in three strides, his shoulder brushing hers. "She's not going back."

The two men stood nose to nose—one smelling of Santal 33 and privilege, the other of honest sweat and motor oil. Eduardo had to tilt his head back to meet Tomás's gaze.

"How...quaint," Eduardo sneered. "The stable boy thinks he—"

Isabella's palm connected with his cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways. "Finish that sentence," she whispered, "and I'll show you what this 'stable boy' taught me about handling snakes."

A red mark bloomed on his perfect skin. Somewhere in the pasture, a mare whinnied in alarm.

"You'll regret this," Eduardo hissed, straightening his tie with trembling fingers. "When your accounts are frozen. When your father disowns you." He threw the folder at her feet, photos scattering—Isabella at the Met Gala, cutting ribbons, smiling emptily beside him at some fundraiser. "This is who you are."

Tomás's fist clenched—but Isabella caught his wrist. The muscle beneath her fingers felt like coiled steel.

"No," she said, bending to gather the pictures. "This is who I was." One by one, she tore them in half, letting the pieces flutter to the dirt like wounded birds. "Tell my father I'll call him. On my terms."

The Maserati's engine howled to life. As Eduardo peeled away, gravel spraying, Isabella realized she was shaking—not from fear, but from the sheer relief of a chain snapping.

Tomás turned her gently, his thumbs brushing away tears she hadn't realized she'd shed. "Hey." His voice was rougher than usual. "Look at me."

She did. Saw the promise in his wildfire eyes.

"I'm not going back," she whispered.

"Damn right." He kissed her then, deep and claiming, as the last of the sunlight gilded their tangled hair.

Later, when the stars pricked through the velvet sky, Isabella lay curled against Tomás's chest in the creaking iron bed. The cabin smelled of s*x and woodsmoke, their limbs still loosely entwined. Somewhere beyond the window, an owl called—a mournful sound that raised goosebumps on her arms.

Tomás stiffened first.

"What?" Isabella mumbled into his shoulder.

"Horse is spooked." He was already pulling on jeans, the moonlight carving his bare back into something sculptural. "Stay here."

But she followed anyway, the porch boards cold underfoot. The envelope lay perfectly centered on the doormat—no tracks leading to or from it, as though dropped from the sky.

Inside, the photograph showed a birthday party. Six-year-old Isabella in a lace dress, beaming at a cake. The man beside her gripped her shoulder too tightly, his signet ring digging into her skin even through the faded image.

Tomás flipped it over. The handwriting was elegant, precise:

"Everything beautiful is fragile. Even you."

The torn photographs swirled in the sudden gust of wind, one half-landing in the water trough where the edges slowly darkened and curled. Isabella watched the ink bleed - her gala smile dissolving into abstract streaks, the diamonds around her neck becoming meaningless smudges. A fat drop of rain hit her forearm, then another. The storm clouds had crept in unnoticed, mirroring the tension that still thrummed in her jaw.

Tomás's calloused hand found hers, his thumb tracing the angry red marks her nails had left in her own palm. "Look," he murmured.