Alma's Own

CHAPTER 5

Marriage, Alma learned quickly, was not a sanctuary.

It was a stage.

By the third morning in the Soler penthouse, the illusion of belonging had already worn thin. The space remained pristine marble floors gleaming, glass walls framing the penthouse like a private kingdom, but Alma sensed the watchfulness embedded in every corner. The house had not accepted her. It was merely tolerating her.

She adapted accordingly.

Staff addressed her as Señora Soler with impeccable manners, yet their courtesy carried a measured distance. Instructions were repeated unnecessarily. Messages arrived late. Decisions required approvals that had never been mentioned before. Nothing overt. Nothing undeniable.

Precision sabotage.

Víctor, meanwhile, maintained his dual existence effortlessly. In public, he was attentive, almost indulgent. A hand at her waist during events. A well-timed smile. A husband proud of his acquisition.

In private, he was sealed shut, breakfasts were dominated by business meetings, projects, flights spoken in broad strokes, never substance. His empire was something she orbited, not entered.

Victor joined her for breakfast each morning, impeccably dressed,composed,the image of a newly married man who expected admiration rather than intimacy. He spoke easily of schedules and meetings, of foreign partners flying in from Zurich and Sao Paulo, of deals still sealed in silence.

“Tomorrow I’ll be in Barcelona,” he said buttering toast without looking at her “Only overnight.”

“Alright then.” Alma replied smoothly.

He never asked about her plans and she was just made to assist when needed, reviewing certain accounts, business schedules, and that was it.

At night, he drank, discipline dissolved into excess. Wine softened his edges. Brandy afterward, dulled his scrutiny.

Alma learned the patterns quickly.

She learned how much to pour. When to suggest rest. When to retreat.

The first disruption was minor enough to be dismissed.

A charity invitation never arrived. She heard of the event days later, mentioned casually over dinner by one of Víctor’s associates.

“Strange,” Víctor said when she mentioned it. “I’ll have it looked into.”

It never was.

Then came the account delays. Missing documents. Endless apologies. A dress replaced hours before an appearance with something subtly inappropriate, enough to draw attention without scandal.

Small humiliations.

Tests.

Alma responded by becoming immaculate.

She rose early. Learned the rhythms of the household. Memorized loyalties, preferences, unspoken hierarchies. She attended events with composed elegance, drawing on discipline honed long before she had ever encountered wealth. Dance had taught her control. Art had taught her observation.

She spoke little. Listened carefully.

Beyond the main salons lay an intimate art space, Victor rarely mentioned, it was quieter there. At Alma’s request, he had granted her full use of it, almost too easily. The adjoining private gallery told a different story, its walls were lined not only with valuable works, but fragments of the Soler family’s history. Formal painting of Don Emilio hung beside stylized photographs of the Soler sisters captured in curated elegance. Between them were paintings, sketches, and experimental pieces signed by names that no longer appeared anywhere else in the penthouse.

Some of which were women who had once lived there, former lovers, muses and mistresses, of both father and sons respectively, whose presence had been absorbed into the estate and then quietly disappeared.

Later, it was in that private gallery that Daniel finally confronted Alma.

She stood alone before a large abstract canvas, studying its fractured geometry, when he suddenly stepped in, as if to view any latest art work hanged on by her, his voice suddenly cutting through the quiet of the space.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Alma did not turn. “I wasn’t aware games required invitations.”

“This one does,” Daniel said sharply. “And you didn’t receive one.”

She faced him then. His expression was no longer neutral, his usual restraint stripped away, replaced with something urgent, almost grim.

“If you’re here to manipulate my uncle,” he continued, lowering his voice, “you should know this family doesn’t forgive mistakes. Especially Víctor.”

Alma studied him calmly. “And if I’m not?”

“Then you’re in even greater danger,” he replied. “Because people who don’t understand what they’ve stepped into don’t last long.”

Silence stretched between them.

“You think I married him for money, or rather for more fame” she said finally.

Daniel did not answer.

“I’m not a gold-digger,” Alma continued evenly. “And I’m not here to extort anyone.”

His eyes sharpened. “Then why are you here?”

She hesitated, just long enough to make the truth heavier.

“Because walking away was never an option,” she said. “And because what’s at stake isn’t something I can afford to lose again.”

Daniel searched her face. “You’re not telling me everything.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I’m telling you enough.”

Something shifted in his expression then. Not trust, but recognition. A quiet understanding born of things he had witnessed, things he could never openly name. His uncle, Victor had brought him up after his father’s death, as he grew up silently witnessing Victor’s shady deals, hushed conversations with alliances and what not, as Daniel grew older, he began to see what of the world couldn’t see, his uncle was not the commanding, respected magnate the press celebrated. Beneath the polished image was a man ruled by appetite, secrecy and an unrelenting hunger for control.

Mistresses passed thought the penthouse like seasons, each one briefly cherished then quietly replaced. Victor never married, never had children. Commitment required vulnerability and vulnerability had no place in his empire. Power and wealth were his only true attachments. Daniel endured the rages, the sudden silences, the moments when a misplaced word could turn into a threat. He learned early how to stay invisible. And somewhere in that quiet observation, he made a vow. He would not become like them.

He pursued his education with purpose, earning credentials in business administration and international relation to help strengthen the Soler empire, but to give himself an exit from it one day. He understood contracts, markets and diplomacy better than most men twice his age yet he remained deliberately on the margins of his uncle’s operations. To Victor, Daniel was useful now but harmless. Besides being given the role of an accountant, to keep the books balanced and appearances clean he was a chaperone as well, at meetings; wherever Victor went he followed, he was meant to monitor and supervise ongoing activities and persons within them, and Alma was no exception.

“My uncle destroys people,” he said quietly. “Sometimes legally. Sometimes not.”

“I believe so,” Alma replied.

That unsettled him more than denial ever could have.

Their conversation ended there, no alliance, no promises. Only awareness.

Alma began to realize something

Daniel was not merely observant.

He could be useful.

And worse, she was beginning to feel the pull of him. The restraint. The quiet integrity he carried like a burden. It was an attraction she neither wanted nor permitted herself to explore.

He was a Soler.

And at night, Víctor grew more careless.

His drinking increased subtly. Alma adjusted accordingly, measuring, guiding, deflecting. Sleeping pills dissolved invisibly into routine drinks. Desire dulled before it could demand, thus they never consummated the marriage, they shared a marriage in appearance only, and she made sure of it as the thought alone – literally sleeping with the enemy, disgusted her, Victor slept on, oblivious to the rage slowly brewing in her, and the thrill of realizing that her plans were beginning to materialize, and that was just a start up.