Blood and Vows.

Chapter 34 — Masks at the Salmo Estate

The Salmo estate stood on a hill that overlooked the old city like a sentinel. Its stone walls glowed pale gold in the fading light, every terrace lit with lanterns that swung gently in the breeze. Olive trees bent in long rows across the slope, their shadows stretching thin as if the earth itself bowed toward the mansion. Cars glided up the drive one by one, polished black, silver, and white. They reflected the lights so perfectly it seemed no dust had ever touched them. Guards at the gates checked each arrival with courteous but watchful eyes. This was not a gathering one could stumble into. It was curated, pruned like the roses in the garden—every guest a piece of leverage, every laugh rehearsed before mirrors. Sebastian stepped out of the first car. He wore a black suit, sharp enough to cut air, his tie loosened as if he didn’t care, though the knot had been calculated to land just so against his collar. He moved with the ease of a man who had carried knives in conversations since boyhood. Beside him, Martin walked half a step behind, not just a bodyguard but a silent mirror of calculation, eyes already sweeping the estate. The second car stopped a beat later. Its tinted glass revealed nothing until the door opened. Alex stepped out, disguised as Martin’s companion for the evening. Her dress was simple, not dazzling—dark blue with a neckline that could pass for modest, but the fabric clung close enough to let anyone believe she belonged among the elite. She hated every thread of it. Leila’s doing, of course. The disguise was just another role she had to play. Inside, the reception hall stretched wide and gleaming. A chandelier spilled gold across polished marble. Musicians played discreetly near a fountain that caught and scattered candlelight. Waiters moved in seamless lines with silver trays, glasses of champagne balanced like jewels. It was all elegance and weight, the kind of weight that made people forget how fragile walls really were. Elena Salmo entered with her father. She was a vision of duty—white dress with gold trim, hair swept into a braid crowned by pins shaped like olive leaves. Her beauty was undeniable, yet her smile was not the bright flame of a bride. It was a flicker, carefully fed, carefully restrained. She moved toward Sebastian, as though rehearsed for weeks. “Señor Cortez,” she said with practiced warmth, extending her hand. Sebastian bowed slightly, fingers brushing hers. “Señorita Salmo.” He did not kiss her hand, though the crowd expected it. He allowed the pause to linger, daring them to wonder why. Around them, murmurs rose. Fernando leaned against the bar, already smirking, his glass raised in mocking salute. His eyes lingered on Alex for a fraction too long, though she kept to the shadows. Elena’s smile remained, though her eyes carried an edge. “My father was concerned you would be late.” “I wanted the moment to matter,” Sebastian replied evenly. A ripple of laughter broke out among the guests. Even Don Javier, Elena’s father, allowed a small chuckle before taking his seat at the head of the long banquet table. Alex, watching from the archway, felt her stomach knot. The sight of Sebastian standing beside another woman, leaning just close enough to make the illusion real, scraped at her ribs. She clenched her hands against the railing, nails biting her palms. This is not jealousy, she told herself. This is survival. This is part of his game—and mine. Nothing more. But her chest betrayed her with every beat. Dinner began with ceremony. Platters of roasted quail, bowls of olives slick with oil, silver dishes of sea bass perfumed with citrus. The quartet played something soft, designed to lubricate conversations. Every clink of cutlery, every lift of a glass, was another layer of theater. Sebastian kept his role. He leaned toward Elena when she spoke, nodded at her stories, allowed his smile to bloom just enough to satisfy the room. But his mind churned behind his eyes. Every laugh was calculated, every sip of wine a measured pause. Elena felt it. She might have been young, but she was not blind. Her gaze lingered on him with something sharper than affection—frustration, perhaps even resentment. When she leaned in to whisper, Alex caught only fragments: “Not my choice… too sudden… we both know…” Sebastian replied without moving his lips, his voice low enough to vanish beneath the clatter of silverware. “Not mine either.” Elena blinked, then gave the kind of smile that looked convincing only from across the room. Fernando struck then, striding to the center with a glass in hand. “Our golden boy,” he said, clapping too loudly. “A groom at last! Tell us, Sebastian—do you look forward more to the vows or to the secrets you’ll keep from your bride?” The hall went taut. Elena’s face flushed with humiliation. “Enough, Fernando.” Her voice cut sharp. “This evening is not about you.” “Forgive me, querida,” he said, bowing just enough to mock. “I simply admire how quickly business turns into family.” Don Javier’s expression hardened. “Curiosity is not welcome here. Respect is.” Fernando’s grin wavered, but he drained his glass and retreated to the shadows. Sebastian never flinched. He poured wine into Elena’s glass with steady hands, then murmured something that made her laugh again, shifting the room’s tension back into polite applause. But Alex had seen it. The muscle that flickered once in his jaw. The small storm under the mask. She knew he wanted to put Fernando through the wall. And she hated herself for the sting of pride she felt in knowing she was the only one who could read it. The banquet stretched on. Don Javier gave his toast: “Tonight we welcome Sebastian Cortez into our family. His name carries weight, his vision carries strength. Let our houses stand as one.” Glasses lifted. Sebastian raised his but let the wine touch his lips only briefly. His eyes, dark as stormwater, flicked across the hall—first to Elena, then to Fernando, and at last, unguarded for the briefest heartbeat, to Alex in the shadows. Her lungs froze. For half a second, the crowd vanished. It was only his gaze, heavy, sharp, unbearably intimate. Then he turned back, his smile reattached like armor. Later, when the plates had been cleared and the music softened, Javier beckoned Sebastian to the balcony. Elena followed, her fingers light on his arm though her steps were reluctant. Martin kept his distance but near enough to hear. Alex pressed herself to a shadowed column, her heartbeat too loud in her ears. Javier’s voice was low but carried authority. “This union is not merely a dinner performance. It is trust. It is allegiance. When you stand beside my daughter, you stand beside me.” Sebastian inclined his head. “I understand.” “You will not fail her,” Javier continued. “And if you do, you will not just fail her. You will fail me. You will fail everything we are building.” Elena shifted uncomfortably. Her voice, soft but firm, broke through. “Father, perhaps Señor Cortez should be allowed to answer without threat.” Javier silenced her with a glance, but the corner of his mouth twitched—more respect than anger. He turned back to Sebastian. “Well?” Sebastian met his gaze with quiet steel. “I don’t fail.” The answer satisfied the crowd gathering at the edges of the balcony. It was what they wanted: certainty, bravado, the promise of strength. But Alex, hidden in the shadows, heard the unspoken: I will not fail—but not for the reasons you think. When the evening wound down, when Elena was swept into another circle of family introductions and Sebastian was pulled aside for handshakes, Alex forced herself to breathe. He is not mine. He is not for me. He is a mask, a weapon, nothing else. And yet the image of him pouring wine into Elena’s glass, standing with her under the lanterns, branded itself into her bones like fire. She whispered into the night, as if convincing herself: “This is only survival. Nothing more.”