Chapter 6
1741 Words
The warm, comforting atmosphere that Valentina had brought into the room vanished the exact moment the heavy iron locks on the double doors ground together with a harsh, metallic screech.
Valentina froze, her coffee cup hovering halfway to her lips. Isadora’s heart violently misbehaved against her ribs, her breath catching in her throat as the doors swung open.
Donna Catalina stepped into the master suite, moving with the rigid, terrifying posture of a high inquisitor. She was dressed in a dark burgundy tailored dress that looked like dried blood, her silver-streaked hair pulled back into her signature, severe bun. Behind her walked two older women dressed in stark, identical charcoal-grey wool suits. They moved in perfect, eerie synchronization, carrying thick leather-bound ledgers and a long, silver measuring tape that gleamed menacingly under the morning sun.
Catalina’s sharp, dark eyes swept the room, instantly landing on the silver pastry tray, the half-empty coffee cups, and finally, on Valentina. Her face hardened into an expression of aristocratic disdain.
"Valentina," Catalina spoke, her voice a whip crack that shattered the residual warmth of the room. "I did not authorize your presence in this wing. This is a sanctuary of the core family, not a courtyard for the secondary bloodlines to gossip in."
Valentina didn't flinch, though her fingers tightened around the porcelain handle of her cup. She slowly set it down and stood up, smoothing out her bright, bohemian floral dress, deliberately contrasting Catalina’s grim austerity. "Caspian asked me to check on her, Donna Catalina. I thought it best she see a friendly face before she was subjected to... whatever it is you call your hospitality."
"What Don Caspian asks of you is irrelevant to the training of the future Reina," Catalina replied coldly, stepping further into the room. The two women in grey flanked her like gargoyles. "The Council demands perfection. The girl is a blank slate of common clay, and I have exactly three weeks to mold her into a marble statue. I will not have your sentimental, bourgeois coddling distracting her from the gravity of her reality. Leave us. Now."
Valentina bit the inside of her cheek, her emerald eyes flashing with a dangerous spark. She looked down at Isadora, who had risen from her chair, her amber honey eyes wide with a mixture of raw terror and silent pleading. Valentina reached out, deliberately squeezing Isadora’s cold hand in full view of the older woman.
"Remember what I told you, cariño," Valentina whispered softly, her voice steady and deliberate. "Eat the food. Learn the steps. Keep the fire."
"Valentina!" Catalina snapped, her voice rising an octave.
With a final, reassuring nod, Valentina pulled her hand away, cast a scathing look at the two women in grey, and walked past them. The heavy doors thudded shut behind her, the lock clicking into place like a final judgment.
Isadora was alone with the vultures.
"Stand in the center of the room," Catalina commanded, not even looking at Isadora as she accepted a ledger from one of the grey-suited women.
Isadora swallowed the lump of bile rising in her throat. She forced her legs to move, stepping into the bright, golden patch of sunlight in the middle of the massive charcoal-silk room. Her cream sundress felt thin, offering no protection against the icy gaze of the three women.
"Let us see the extent of the damage," Catalina murmured, gesturing to the woman with the silver measuring tape.
Before Isadora could protest, the woman moved in. Rough, calloused hands gripped Isadora’s shoulders, forcing her spine straight with a violent jerk. The silver tape was snapped across her chest, her waist, and her hips, the metal cold against her skin. The second woman barked out numbers in a monotone voice, scribbling furiously into her ledger.
"Her shoulders are slouched from years of leaning over baking tables," Catalina observed, walking a slow circle around Isadora, her heels clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. "Her gait will undoubtedly be heavy, lacking the cadence of Andalusian nobility. Look at her chin—it drops when she is frightened. A Queen does not look at the floor, girl. Even if a blade is at her throat, she looks her executioner in the eye."
"I am not a queen," Isadora whispered, her voice trembling as the woman pulled the measuring tape tightly around her ribs, constricting her breathing. "I am a captive."
A sharp, stinging slap echoed through the room.
Isadora gasped, her hand flying to her cheek, which burned with a sudden, fiery heat. Donna Catalina stood directly in front of her, her hand lowered, her dark eyes completely devoid of mercy.
"You are whatever the Valiente name dictates you are," Catalina hissed, her face inches from Isadora's. "In this house, you do not speak unless spoken to. You do not use the word 'captive.' You do not weep. If you cry, I will ensure the tears you shed are for the people you left behind in Granada. Do you understand me?"
Isadora’s eyes welled with hot, angry tears, but she looked at Catalina’s severe face and remembered Valentina's words: If you let her see your fear, she will feed on it.
Slowly, deliberately, Isadora forced her chin up. She blinked back the tears, staring directly into the older woman’s dark, hollow eyes with a sudden, fierce defiance. "I understand."
Catalina’s eyes narrowed, a microscopic flicker of surprise crossing her features before she masked it with her usual disdain. "Good. Let us begin with your posture. Walk to the glass wall and back. And if your hips sway like a street walker, we will start over."
Several wings away, in the soundproofed, mahogany-paneled confines of the estate’s private library, a completely different kind of tension was tearing the room apart.
Balthazar Valiente stood by a massive arched window, staring out at the rolling hills of the estate. He had completely ignored the stack of intelligence reports regarding the northern borders that sat on his desk. He had ignored the five encrypted phones buzzing continuously in his drawer.
For the first time in his thirty years of life, Balthazar was completely paralyzed.
His large hands were clenched into tight fists inside his pockets. The memory of the previous night was a burning brand in his mind. He couldn't shake the image of Isadora huddled in that massive velvet chair, her amber honey eyes filled with such a profound, shattering terror—a terror that he had inflicted upon her. He remembered the hot tear that had scalded his thumb, the desperate, broken way she had begged him for the truth.
Why me? What did I ever do to you? Who am I to you?
He had stayed silent because the truth was a weapon that would destroy her. But his silence had only made him look like a heartless monster.
Balthazar let out a low, frustrated growl, running a hand through his dark hair, tearing at the roots. He was a master of strategy. He knew how to dismantle a rival syndicate in a weekend. He knew how to squeeze a corrupt politician until they bled information. But he didn't know how to do this. He didn't know how to look at a nineteen-year-old girl who hated his guts and make her understand that she was safe. He didn't know how to court a woman whose parents' blood was, technically, on his hands.
He wanted to buy her things—the finest silks, the rarest jewelry, a state-of-the-art bakery that would make her eyes light up. But how could he give gifts to a captive? Every gesture of kindness would look like a bribe, a cruel joke played by her warden.
The heavy library door opened, and Caspian walked in, holding a fresh file. "Balthazar, the Romanov faction just moved three more armored vehicles to the Marbella docks. Faustus is holding a closed-door meeting with his lieutenants in Madrid, and we need to—"
Caspian stopped mid-sentence, looking at his older brother. Balthazar hadn't even turned around. His focus was completely gone, his posture tense, his eyes locked onto nothingness outside the window.
Caspian tossed the file onto the desk and let out a heavy sigh, crossing his arms. "You're not hearing a word I'm saying, are you?"
"I'm listening," Balthazar muttered, his voice dead and hollow.
"No, you're not," Caspian said, walking over to the window and leaning against the frame, forcing himself into Balthazar's line of sight. "Your body is in this library, but your mind is upstairs in the master suite. You're thinking about the baker."
Balthazar’s jaw tightened, a dangerous edge returning to his voice. "Leave it alone, Caspian."
"I can't leave it alone, brother, because your distraction is going to get us killed," Caspian said, his tone a mix of frustration and genuine worry. "Look at you. You're the fiercest blade this family has ever produced, and you're pacing around a library like a lovesick teenager. If you wanted a girl to play with, you should have picked someone from the clubs in Marbella. Not a girl who looks at you like you're the devil incarnate."
"She doesn't know anything," Balthazar said quietly, his voice dropping into a rare, vulnerable register that made Caspian perk up. "She asked me why I took her. She asked me what the real motive was."
"And what did you tell her?"
"Nothing." Balthazar finally turned his back to the window, leaning against the glass, his icy grey eyes filled with a profound, heavy darkness.
Caspian stared at his brother, the roguish smirk completely vanishing from his face. It was rare to see Balthazar like this—disoriented, distressed, completely out of his depth.
"You really don't know what to do, do you?" Caspian asked softly.
Balthazar closed his eyes, the silence of the library swallowing them both. He didn't know how to bridge the gap between his guilt and his possessiveness. He didn't know how to court a girl who was currently being broken by his own aunt two floors above. His focus was entirely shattered, his empire fading into the background, leaving only the memory of Isadora's amber eyes burning holes into his soul.
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