Sins of the Elite

Chapter Three

Axel

Summer in San Paloma didn’t pass by. It lingered.

The kind of summer that didn’t care about time. The kind that moved slow, like honey dripping from a spoon. Mornings were quiet and golden. Afternoons brought the hum of cicadas and the scent of roasting chiles from neighbors’ kitchens. Evenings carried laughter, music, and the soft glow of lanterns strung across our courtyard.

It was a summer of her—woven into everything.

We hadn’t planned to stay at Casa Luz this long. At least, not out loud. But once we got here, none of us could stomach the idea of leaving. Not when the house still felt like her heartbeat. Not when the world outside—especially his world—was filled with noise and cameras and perfectly practiced grief.

So we stayed.

And we breathed.

Silas never left either. Not once. He took over the bedroom off the garden and made it his own—windows wide open, sketchbooks stacked in corners, fresh air and lavender drifting through like paint on a breeze.

Selena and Tía Elena came often. Usually for a few days at a time. Elena brought food, gossip, and quiet strength. Selena brought playlists, iced coffee orders scribbled on the fridge, and the kind of hugs that broke you down without warning.

We’d sit under the jacaranda tree most nights—braiding marigolds into crowns, lighting candles, telling stories about Mom until someone cried or cracked a joke to stop the crying.

It was like we were building an altar in motion—living, breathing, and stitched together by grief and love. Some nights we played her favorite songs and danced barefoot through the garden, laughing through tears. Other nights, we fell asleep under the stars, wrapped in blankets, listening to the sound of wind brushing through leaves like her voice whispering goodnight.

Braxton built a new bench for the courtyard—hand-sanded and carved with Mom’s favorite quote in Spanish across the back.

Cuidar de otros no es debilidad, es revolución.

Taking care of others isn’t weakness—it’s revolution.

We planted sunflowers in the corners of the garden. Calyx named each one like they were people. Silas drew them in stages, from sprout to bloom. I started waking up early, just to water them. Just to keep something alive. I’d sit there for a while with my coffee, watching the light shift across the courtyard, waiting for her shadow to pass by.

It was the first time in a long time that silence felt safe.

Until the world came knocking.

It started with a headline.

I didn’t even see it. Not at first. Calyx did.

We were sitting in the living room—fan turning lazily overhead, Selena in the kitchen making iced café de olla while Braxton argued with Silas over which version of “Volver, Volver” was better—when Calyx’s voice cut through it all.

“What. The actual. Hell?”

He was staring at his phone. Mouth open. Eyes wide.

I knew that look. Braxton saw it too.

“What is it?” I asked, already bracing.

Calyx didn’t answer. He just turned the screen toward us.

There he was. Xavier Vaughn, on the cover of a digital magazine. Shaking hands with other polished men in suits. Wearing a black ribbon on his lapel. Smiling with that perfected balance of grief and gravitas.

“Xavier Vaughn Announces Campaign for Governor Following Tragic Loss of Wife: ‘I Carry Her Legacy Into This New Chapter’”

I stared at it, heart thudding like a war drum.

Selena stopped mid-stir behind us. Silas’s sketchbook slid off his lap.

“No way,” Braxton said flatly.

“He didn’t even tell us,” Calyx said. “We found out with everyone else.”

I stood, pacing. The article was everywhere. News outlets. Political blogs. Social media reels with clips of him giving heartfelt speeches in front of donation galas and fundraisers—talking about Mom like she was some symbol of resilience he could use to boost his brand.

There was even a montage of him and her, years ago, laughing at a press event. He’d posted it himself.

The caption?

“For Esmeralda. You always believed in people. Now I’ll fight for them, too.”

Bullshit.

All of it.

He hadn’t believed in people. He believed in power. Control. Optics. And he hadn’t fought for her.

Not when it mattered.

My jaw clenched.

A news anchor’s voice played through the phone screen, mid-interview:

“Some have called Xavier Vaughn’s decision to run courageous, especially so soon after losing his wife to cancer. His sons—three young men known for their academic and athletic standing at Rosewood Academy—have not made any public appearances or statements. They’re reportedly grieving privately in the family’s summer estate in San Paloma.”

“Grieving privately,” Calyx muttered. “They make it sound like we’re sipping cocktails on a yacht.”

Braxton stood beside me, shoulders tense. “He’s using her.”

“And us,” Selena added bitterly. “He’s spinning this whole thing into some noble comeback arc.”

Silas said nothing, but I could see the storm behind his eyes.

The worst part? The man hadn’t even called.

Not since that last soulless phone call a few weeks ago.

No apology. No explanation. Just another show for the cameras. And the voters.

I walked out to the courtyard, my hand gripping the back of my neck as the heat settled in.

I could hear Mom’s voice in my head.

“Mijo, nunca dejes que otros cuenten tu historia por ti. Speak your truth. Even if your voice shakes.”

“Axel,” Selena’s voice came behind me, softer now.

I turned. She stepped closer, blond hair pulled into a braid, golden in the light, sunflower still tucked behind one ear. She looked too much like her mother. And yet, her fire? All her own.

“You okay?”

“No,” I admitted.

She nodded. “Good. Don’t lie about it.”

I gave a humorless laugh and rubbed my face. “What are we supposed to do? Go back to the city and pretend to play the part?”

“We don’t,” she said. “We stay grounded here. We finish this summer our way. For her. Not for him.”

Silas stepped out next, the others behind him.

“She wouldn’t have wanted us anywhere near that circus,” he said. “You know she wouldn’t.”

Calyx nodded. “And we already promised her.”

Braxton’s voice was low but resolute. “We stay. We honor her. We figure out what comes next.”

I looked around at them—at this little circle we’d built in the firelight of loss. My brothers. My family. The only people I trusted.

We couldn’t stay hidden forever. The world would come for us eventually—Rosewood, the press, everything in between. The cameras would find our faces. The whispers would follow our last name. People would ask questions we weren’t ready to answer—and demand truths we still didn’t fully understand.

But not yet.

For now, we still had time.

Time to remember her—really remember her. Not the public version, not the headline or the tribute video, but the woman who used to sing in the kitchen, who smelled like gardenias and cinnamon, who believed we were meant for something greater than wealth or legacy.

Time to breathe in the warmth of this place. To hold on to the scent of sun-warmed stone, the way the floor tiles stayed cool beneath bare feet, the flicker of candlelight against adobe walls. To let San Paloma work its quiet magic, healing us in ways no one else could.

Time to plan—not just for the year ahead, but for the questions still buried beneath grief. For the silence that didn’t sit right. For the things our father wouldn’t say. For the version of the story we were never meant to read.

Because something didn’t add up.

And when the time came, when summer faded and the leaves began to fall and Rosewood’s gates opened again…

We’d be ready.

We’d carry her with us like a shield.

And we’d find the truth—no matter where it led.