You're 100% right _cariño_ 💛 I forgot the plot. My fault.
This is an *arranged marriage*. Eleanor Vega *already vetted Katrina* before the wedding. She knows exactly where her family is. She wouldn't ask "Your family is in Mexico City?" like it's new info. That was sloppy.
Here's *Chapter 3 fixed for plot + still
The Guest Room
The Vega house smelled like money and pine. Christmas decorations were still up, all silver, no red. Controlled. Like Alexandra. Like everything he touched.
Dinner had been exactly what he warned her about. An inspection disguised as lamb and wine, even though the real inspection happened weeks ago when Eleanor Vega decided Katrina Alvarez was an acceptable match.
His mother, Eleanor Vega, sat at the head of the table with a spine made of steel. She didn't ask where Katrina's family lived. She already knew. Her people had done a full report before she signed off on the arrangement. Instead, she asked the things that mattered now. "Your mother's health is stable, I trust? The clinic in Mexico City is adequate? You do not intend to work after marriage, correct? The Vega name requires a certain… presence at home."
It wasn't a question. None of it was. It was a reminder of the terms. Katrina's mother had been sick. The medical bills were part of why her family agreed to Alexandra's proposal. Eleanor was making sure Katrina remembered the deal.
Katrina answered in short sentences. Yes. Yes. No. Matteo taught her that long answers gave men more things to break. Short answers were walls. Short answers kept you safe. And Eleanor wasn't Matteo, but the rule still applied.
His father, victor , only spoke once. He looked at her over his wine glass, eyes pale like Alexandra's but colder. "You're quieter than I expected," he said to Katrina, then went back to his steak like he hadn't just measured her. "The reports said you were… livelier."
_Reports._ There it was. They had files on her. Of course they did.
Alexandra didn't defend her. Didn't agree either. He just finished chewing, set his knife down, and said, "She's my wife. That's the only report that matters now."
Five words. The table went silent. Eleanor's mouth tightened, but she nodded. One sharp nod. Approval. Richard raised an eyebrow and drank.
Katrina didn't know what she felt. Relief? No. Alexandra hadn't done it for her. He'd done it because Richard questioned _his_ judgment. Possession, not protection. Still, her chest felt less tight for three seconds.
After dessert, Eleanor stood. The signal that dinner was over. "You'll stay the night, of course. The guest room is ready. One bed should be sufficient. The press took photos at the church. We need to maintain appearances if anyone sees you leave in the morning." She didn't smile. This wasn't about family. It was about optics. About the merger his father was pushing through. A happy newlywed photo was worth millions.
One bed. Katrina's stomach dropped. She looked at Alexandra. He was looking at his empty plate, jaw working like he was biting back words. He hated this part too.
"I'm tired," Katrina said suddenly. The first thing she'd said all night without being asked. Her voice was louder than she meant. "May I be excused?"
Eleanor's eyebrow twitched. Excusing yourself was rude. Vega wives didn't get tired. Vega wives endured. But this wasn't a normal dinner. This was damage control after Victor's comment.
"Go," Alexandra said before his mother could speak. He didn't look up. "I'll be up later."
It wasn't permission. It was an exit strategy he was granting her. She took it.
Katrina didn't run. But her legs wanted to. The maid, old and quiet, led her upstairs to the east wing. The floors were marble. Cold under her heels. In Mexico City, her mother's house had tile. Warm in the day, cool at night. Not this. This was a museum.
The maid opened a door. "The guest room, ma'am."
Katrina stepped inside and stopped.
King size bed. Dark wood. Four walls of bookshelves, floor to ceiling. A globe by the window. A desk with nothing on it except a green lamp.
It didn't look like a guest room. It looked like a boy's room that someone refused to change. Like time stopped here and no one had the guts to start the clock again.
"This was Master Alexandra's room," the maid said quietly, already backing out. "When he was sixteen, seventeen, before he left for university. Madam never changed it."
The door clicked shut.
Katrina was alone.
He was neat. Even at seventeen. The desk was clear. The books were alphabetical — she checked. Law, Economics, History. No dust. Someone cleaned in here, but no one lived in here. The bed was made with corners sharp enough to cut. Military corners.
Nice. Warm, almost. The word felt wrong in her mouth. Nothing about Alexandra was warm. But this room was. The wood, the lamp, the way the moon came through the window without curtains to stop it.
_He was a boy here._ The thought hit her sideways. Alexandra Vega, the man whose family paid her family's debts for a marriage certificate, was seventeen in this room. Did he hate the arrangement too? Did he have a choice, or was he also just a chess piece for Vega Group?
She walked to the shelves. No photos. No posters. Just one framed thing: a chess trophy. Second place. The silver was tarnished. She touched the plate. _A. Vega – State Finals 2011_. Second place.
He kept it. Second place. In a house where Eleanor only hung first place. _Why?_ Was it rebellion? Or did he just not care enough to throw it out?
On the nightstand was a book, spine cracked like it had been read a hundred times. The Art of War. She picked it up. Heavy. Inside the cover, in messy teenage handwriting, blue ink bleeding: _Property of A. Vega. If lost, return for reward: 1 chocolate bar._
Katrina snorted. Then covered her mouth. The sound scared her.
He was a kid. A kid who liked chocolate and wrote bribes in his books. Before he became this. Before the arrangement.
She sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress didn't even dip. Hard. Like him. She opened the book. The pages smelled like paper and time. She read one line. _"Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak."_
That was her whole life. That was this marriage. She was supposed to appear like a loving wife. Strong enough to handle the Vegas, weak enough to never challenge them.
_Your mother's health is stable, I trust?_ Eleanor's voice. A leash. The clinic in Mexico City cost $8,000 a month. Alexandra paid it now. If she misbehaved, did the money stop? She didn't know. The contract was fifty pages. She signed where Alexandra pointed.
She laid back, just for a second. The pillow smelled like nothing. No cologne. No him. Just laundry detergent. Expensive. She closed her eyes.
She was tired of being strong. Tired of being weak. Tired of being a clause in a merger.
She pulled the book to her chest and turned on her side. Just for a minute. Just to rest her eyes.
She dreamed of her mother in Mexico City. Of the phone call telling her the money stopped. Of being sent back, of Matteo finding her at the airport because Alexandra was done with her.
The door opened.
She didn't wake.
Alexandra saw her first. Shoes off, dress still on, curled on her side with his old book tented over her ribs like armor. Her hair was over her face. She looked twelve. Not like the woman who'd stared down his mother at dinner and said "I'm tired" like it was a law.
He stepped closer. Her hand was on the blanket. Cold. He picked it up, two fingers on her wrist. Just to check for a pulse. Stupid. She was breathing. But his father's words were in his head. _The reports said you were… livelier._ Was she sick? Was this whole thing going to collapse because she was too broken to play her part?
Alive. Just asleep.
He could have woken her. Could have said the couch was his and the bed was hers. Could have left and gone to another room. He owned the house.
He didn't.
He pulled the throw blanket from the end of the bed and covered her to the shoulders. Tucked it in. Like his mother used to do when he had fevers. Before she decided boarding school was better parenting than love. Before she became this.
Then he went to the desk. His desk. Still felt like his after ten years. The chair still fit. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and sat. Laptop open. Vega Group didn't sleep because it was New Year's Day. Neither did he. The Mexico City expansion hinged on this marriage looking real. His father was watching.
Midnight hit. His phone lit up on the desk. Dozens of messages. _Happy New Year._ From board members, investors, women he'd stopped answering three years ago. He ignored them.
He looked at the bed instead.
At one point, around two, Katrina mumbled in her sleep. A word in Spanish. _Mamá._ Then: _no, por favor._ No, please. He couldn't hear the rest. He got up, pulled the blanket higher, and brushed hair off her face with the back of his knuckle. His fingers lingered half a second too long on her cheekbone. Warm. Soft.
She was dreaming of her mother. Of begging. Who was she begging? Him? Matteo? Her own family who sold her?
He didn't know. And he hated not knowing. Data was control. She was a variable he couldn't calculate.
He went back to the couch. Sat. Then laid down, arm over his eyes. The couch was too short. His feet hung off. He didn't care.
He worked until three. When his eyes burned, he closed the laptop.
The last thing he heard before sleep was her breathing. Steady. Safe.
For the first time since his father called him home to sign the marriage contract, the room felt lived in. Lively.
Not because of him. Because of her. The variable. The arrangement.
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