HIS TO RUIN

He was fifteen when he fell in love with her. The rain had just started to fall that summer afternoon, drizzling gently over the rose gardens of the sprawling Cortez estate. Andrés didn’t care for the storm rolling in—he had grown up in it. His family, the Cortez family, ruled their corner of Mexico like kings in a crumbling palace, with secrets buried under luxury and blood woven into the rugs of every room. But none of it mattered the day he saw her again. Sofia. She was the maid’s daughter—her mother had worked at the estate for years. Sofia had come to help for the summer, sweeping the marble halls and scrubbing floors that weren’t worthy of her hands. She was sixteen then—barefoot, proud, and glowing. Her dark curls were tied back in a fraying ribbon, and she barely glanced at Andrés when they passed in the hallway. But when she finally did—when her honey-brown eyes met his—it hit him like a lightning strike. He was done for. She laughed like freedom. She moved like the ocean. He started to find reasons to be in the servants’ wing, reasons to linger at the stables where she brought scraps for the horses. He brought her books she couldn’t borrow from the local library, sweets from town, a necklace on her birthday with a sapphire the color of his mother’s ring. He didn’t ask for anything in return. Not then. They shared stolen kisses behind the olive trees and long conversations on the roof of the west tower, where they could see the whole valley and imagine a life far from the estate. A life where his last name didn’t matter. Where her mother didn’t bow every time his father passed. Where love was enough. When Andrés turned eighteen, his father began to speak of alliances and arranged marriages. The business needed securing—alliances with other families, with power, money, blood. But Andrés refused. He didn’t want some politician’s daughter or a cartel princess raised behind gilded gates. He wanted Sofia. “I will not marry anyone but her,” he declared one night at the family dinner table, the clinking of silverware coming to a stunned halt. His father, Don Fernando, had stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “She is a maid’s daughter,” he said, voice like flint. “She is more loyal than anyone in this house.” That night ended with shouting. Andrés was struck across the face by his own father, but he didn’t back down. He packed a bag. He left the estate with Sofia’s hand in his. They lived in a small apartment in Guanajuato, just the two of them and dreams too large for their reality. For years, he built a life for her. When his father refused to fund his education, Andrés started from nothing—first as a courier, then a mechanic, eventually managing the logistics arm of one of their legitimate fronts. He stayed out of the darker cartel dealings, but everyone knew who he was: the lost heir, the boy who gave up his crown for a girl. And Sofia… she was everything. Kind. Beautiful. Supportive. Or so he believed. She wanted more—he saw it sometimes in the way she looked at luxury cars or expensive jewelry. But Andrés worked harder to give it to her. He rose through the ranks until his father grudgingly welcomed him back into the family business. Not with open arms, but with the respect a man earns when he refuses to be broken. By then, they were engaged. Andrés had bought her the biggest ring he could afford and promised her the world. But love makes you blind. And blind men don’t see betrayal coming. ** It was a Wednesday. Andrés had come home early, wanting to surprise her. They were supposed to visit his mother’s grave that evening—it was the anniversary of her death, and Sofia had always insisted on going with him. The apartment was quiet when he arrived, the door slightly ajar. He stepped inside, holding the flowers he’d bought from the vendor near the cathedral. He heard something—a sound. A voice. A moan. And then his brother’s laugh. Andrés didn’t remember dropping the flowers. He didn’t remember drawing his gun. All he remembered was standing there in the bedroom doorway, watching Sofia in his brother Mateo’s arms, their bodies tangled in the sheets he’d bought her. His world shattered in silence. Mateo had always been the golden boy. Younger by two years, always the favorite. He was charming, reckless, and cruel in a way Andrés had never been. And Sofia—his Sofia—had chosen him. Or maybe she’d never truly chosen at all. He didn’t speak. He didn’t scream. He just turned and walked out, his vision tunneled, rage and heartbreak battling in his chest. He got in his car and drove. Fast. Mindless. Out of the city, toward the highway that led to the coast. Somewhere—anywhere that didn’t have their scent lingering in the air. What he didn’t know was that Mateo had followed. The bastard had jumped into his own car, maybe to explain, maybe to twist the knife further. But Andrés didn’t notice. Not until he had packed his car and turned on the radio to drown his cries, that he heard the news break on the radio. “Breaking: Second Son of cartel patriarch Fernando Cortez critically injured in a high-speed crash outside Celaya. Sources confirm the vehicle belongs to Mateo Cortez…” His heart stopped. ** By the time he made it to the hospital, Mateo was in surgery. Sofia was already there, sobbing, holding his bloodstained jacket like a widow. Andrés didn’t say a word. He looked at her, really looked at her. And for the first time in years, he saw the truth: she had never loved him the way he loved her. He turned and walked out again—this time for good. He didn’t go home. He didn’t go back to the estate. He disappeared. Because loving her had been the greatest mistake of his life. And it had almost killed them both.