Sweet Revenge, bitter Soil

**Chapter 13: The Salt on the Wound**

The morning sun did not break through the windows of the master suite; it cut through them like a golden blade, illuminating the fine dust motes dancing in the air. The storm had fully passed, leaving behind a suffocating, humid heat that even the manor’s heavy industrial cooling units struggled to suppress.

Anza sat propped against the pillows, her face a pale, frozen mask of absolute silence. She hadn't touched the silver tray resting across her lap. The porcelain bowl of rich, sweet chocolate rice porridge and the crystal glass of freshly squeezed sugarcane juice had long gone cold. Her gray-green eyes were fixed entirely on her gauze-wrapped hands, tracing the faint crimson stains blooming through the white fabric.

The heavy double doors creaked open, and the crisp, expensive scent of sandalwood filled the room before he even stepped inside.

Alejandro walked in, dressed in a pristine, white linen button-down shirt with the sleeves meticulously rolled up to his forearms. He looked entirely refreshed, the manic, bloodshot exhaustion of the previous night completely masked by the smooth, undisputed confidence of a billionaire who had just secured his empire. Behind him followed a young housemaid, her head bowed so low her chin practically touched her chest as she carried a small black leather medical case.

"Leave it on the table, Maria," Alejandro ordered smoothly.

"Yes, Señorito," the girl whispered, hastily setting the case down and backing out of the room as if a single stray glance at Anza would cost her her life.

Alejandro closed the doors behind her and turned to the bed. His dark eyes instantly scanned the untouched silver tray, his jaw clenching into a tight, impatient line. He walked over, lifted the tray effortlessly, and set it aside on the dresser.

"You need to eat, Anza," Alejandro said, his voice low, melodic, and entirely devoid of any apology for the horrors she had discovered in his ledger the night before. "The doctor will be here in an hour to check the alignment of your splint. If your body is too weak, the ligaments will not heal correctly."

Anza didn't look up at him. "Let them rot," she whispered, her voice raw, dry, and sharp as a broken cane blade. "Let my whole body fall apart. It’s better than being mended just to be your doll."

Alejandro’s eyes darkened, a flash of that volatile, dangerous hunger swirling in his pupils. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the heavy weight of his body shifting the silk duvet. He reached into the black medical case and pulled out a fresh roll of sterile gauze and a small brown glass bottle of iodine.

Without asking, he reached down and took her right hand.

Anza instinctively tried to pull her arm back, but Alejandro’s grip was immediate and absolute. His long, clean fingers wrapped around her wrist with an iron pressure that didn't hurt her, but made any attempt at escape entirely impossible. He began to slowly, meticulously unwrap the soiled bandages from her raw palm, peeling away the cotton with a tenderness that felt violently insulting compared to the truth of what he had done.

"You think your silence is a weapon, Anza," Alejandro murmured, his eyes focused entirely on her hand as the raw, pink, shredded flesh of her palm was exposed to the light. He dipped a cotton swab into the dark brown iodine. "You think if you refuse to eat, or if you look at me with that beautiful, murderous hatred, I will eventually grow tired of the game and throw you back to the dirt."

He pressed the iodine-soaked cotton directly into the open wounds of her palm.

A sharp, agonizing sting shot up Anza's arm. She bit her lower lip so hard a fresh bead of dark crimson blood welled up against her skin, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a cry. Her gray-green eyes finally snapped up, locking onto his face with a fierce, burning malice.

Alejandro looked up from her hand, his face mere inches from hers. A chilling, breathlessly beautiful smile touched his aristocratic lips as he watched her look at him. He liked the pain in her eyes; he liked that he was the absolute, singular cause of every emotion running through her veins.

"It isn't a game," Alejandro whispered, his thumb deliberately pressing against the uninjured skin of her wrist, feeling the frantic, rapid pounding of her pulse. "Your father’s new lung medication arrived from Manila this morning. It is clean. It has no sedatives, no poisons. It will cure his cough within a month."

Anza’s breath hitched. "You... you swear it?"

"I don't need to swear, *aking sinta*," Alejandro said softly, pulling a fresh roll of white gauze and beginning to wrap her hand with expert, graceful movements. "The courier is waiting in the courtyard. The moment you finish that bowl of porridge, the medicine leaves for the barracks. If you refuse a single spoonful, the courier burns the shipment in the trash pit, and Gardo’s replacement will visit your father’s hut by noon to collect the remainder of his interest."

A violent, shaking chill ran straight down Anza’s spine. The trap was perfect. He had removed the invisible poison from the old man's body, only to replace it with the visible whip of her compliance. She wasn't just consuming food to survive; she was trading her own submission for Mang Tolits’ every breath.

"You are a devil," Anza choked out, her voice trembling with a profound, suffocating grief as she realized she was utterly defeated.

"I am a Valenciano," Alejandro corrected her softly, tying off the neat white knot across her palm. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the pale scar on her knuckles with a terrifying, absolute possessiveness. "And a Valenciano always harvests what he plants. Eat your breakfast, Anza. Your father is waiting."