Alma's Own

CHAPTER 4

A few months had passed, and from the rooftop terrace of the Salamanca penthouse, the city glimmered in layers, windows stacked against darkness, streets pulsing with distant movement, the soft hum of Gran Vía rising like a living current beneath the silence. Alma stood near the glass railing, one hand resting lightly against it, her posture relaxed but deliberate.

She had been invited for dinner. Nothing more.

At least, that was how Víctor had framed it.

Behind her, footsteps approached, unhurried, controlled. Alma did not turn immediately. She felt his presence before she saw him. Víctor Soler moved like a man who had never questioned his right to take up space.

“This vicinity suits you,” he said, joining her.

“It may demand attention,” Alma replied calmly. “And rewards those who notice details.”

Víctor’s lips curved faintly. “You always seem to notice more than you say.”

They dined beneath soft terrace lights, the conversation drifting easily between art, travel, and the abstract language of influence. Alma spoke thoughtfully, never rushing, never filling silences unnecessarily. She let Víctor guide the rhythm, knowing he believed that control was his.

When dinner ended, Víctor rose and returned to the railing, gazing out at the city as though it were something he had built rather than inherited.

“I don’t like uncertainty,” he said, without turning.

“Few people do,” Alma replied.

“I’ve eliminated it wherever possible,” he continued. “In business. In loyalty. In my personal life.”

The words carried weight. Alma remained still.

Then Víctor turned to face her fully.

“Alma,” he said, voice deliberate, “I don’t want to wait any longer.”

Her heart did not race, but her mind sharpened.

“What do you mean?” she asked quietly.

He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. “I want us to be married.”

The words landed heavier than she expected.

Not because she hadn’t imagined this possibility, but because part of her had believed it would take longer. Months more. Perhaps years.

For a fraction of a second, Alma allowed herself genuine surprise to surface.

“Married?” she echoed softly.

“Soon,” Víctor said. “Immediately, if you’re willing.”

Silence stretched between them.

Alma turned away, stepping closer to the railing, letting the city fill the space while she appeared to think. She rested her hands against the glass, her reflection faintly overlapping with the city lights.

“It’s only been a few months,” she said at last. “People will talk.”

Víctor’s tone remained steady. “They always do.”

She inhaled slowly, carefully. Inside, something insider her stirred, not excitement, not greed, but grim gratitude. She had anticipated something like this in theory, yet believed it to be nearly impossible in practice.

And yet here it was.

Thank you, she thought silently, not to Víctor, but to fate itself.

Aloud, she said nothing.

She turned back to him, studying his face as though weighing something deeply personal. “Marriage isn’t something I take lightly,” she said. “I didn’t come to Madrid to rush into anything.”

“That’s precisely why I trust you,” Víctor replied. “You don’t hesitate out of fear. You hesitate out of intelligence.”

She held his gaze. “Then allow me time to think.”

A pause.

Víctor studied her, searching for resistance, for manipulation. Instead, he found composure.

“How much time?” he asked.

“A day,” Alma said. “Perhaps two.”

He nodded slowly. “Very well.”

Daniel Soler noticed the shift the moment Alma left that night.

He hadn’t heard the proposal, but he felt its aftermath, the change in Víctor’s posture, the quiet satisfaction beneath his restraint. Daniel leaned against the terrace wall, unease tightening his chest.

Something irreversible had just been set in motion.

Daniel knew his uncle well enough to recognize that expression. Víctor did not pursue what he could not claim. If marriage was now on the table, it was because Víctor believed the outcome was inevitable.

Which meant Alma had already crossed a threshold.

Daniel watched her walk away earlier, calm, unhurried, thoughtful. Not triumphant. Not overwhelmed.

She’s dangerous, he thought, not in the way Víctor was, but in a quieter, less predictable sense.

He had spent years learning how to survive the Soler world: by staying unremarkable, by hiding his convictions behind neutrality, by pretending indifference. Alma did none of that. She moved deliberately; fully aware she was being watched.

And yet she did not retreat.

That unsettled him.

He told himself his concern was practical. Protective. But the truth was more complicated. He felt drawn to her intelligence, to the restraint she wielded like armor. Attraction was a liability and Daniel had sworn never to carry unnecessary ones.

If Alma accepted Víctor’s proposal, she would no longer be an outsider.

She would be trapped inside.

The next evening, Alma returned.

Víctor was not surprised.

“I’ve thought about your offer,” she said once they were alone.

“And?” he asked.

She hesitated, not theatrically, but convincingly. “It frightens me,” she admitted. “Not the marriage. The speed.”

Víctor stepped closer. “Speed is sometimes mercy.”

She studied him, then nodded slightly. “If I’m to do this,” she said, “it must be with clarity. No illusions.”

“That’s all I’ve ever offered,” he replied.

She extended her hand, not eagerly, not submissively. “Then yes.”

The wedding was arranged with remarkable efficiency.

The Soler family gathered without enthusiasm. Víctor’s sisters, Carmen Soler, sharp-eyed and impeccably composed, and Aitana Soler, younger, colder, her politeness razor-thin stood beside distant relatives and long-standing business allies who treated the union as a strategic event rather than a celebration.

Their glances toward Alma were measured. Assessing.

Daniel watched from amongst them, his concern deepening.

As Alma stood beside Víctor, elegant and controlled, Daniel understood one thing with chilling clarity:

Whatever Alma’s intentions were, she had just entered a battlefield.

And she was either far more prepared than anyone realized.

Or walking directly into ruin.