The morning broke slow and heavy, weighed down by thick clouds and a hush over the Torres estate that felt unnatural. Catalina sat on the edge of her bed, hand pressed lightly against her stomach as dull aches whispered warnings. Her body was shifting, sending messages she wasn’t ready to interpret yet. Her mind, however, was somewhere else—looping through blurred images of Gabriel’s last smile, the strange hollowness of the house, and the silence of the woman who had once been her silent helper.
A knock came at the main entrance just after breakfast. It was sharp but not aggressive, and the guards hesitated before opening. Sister Camilla entered wrapped in her dark veil, hands folded neatly before her, rosary beads clicking with every step. She looked like a vision pulled straight from
