Matio Rodriguez
The car ride to the Rodriguez estate was quiet at first. Trees blurred past the windows, the city slowly thinning into long, winding roads lined with manicured hedges and private gates.
I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, unsure how to say what I needed to say.
“Sara,” I began, eyes still on the road. “When we get there… you’ll need to act—”
She turned toward me, brow raised. “Act?”
“Lovey-dovey,” I muttered.
She blinked, clearly thrown. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You know,” I said, awkwardly. “Like we’re... close. Not cold. Just... believable.”
Sara leaned back, arms folded. “That’s new. You telling me to be affectionate.”
I sighed. “Look, it’s not about faking something. It’s just—my mother, she’s traditional. Image matters. And my father... well, he’s hard
