Beatrice Torres froze where she stood, the chill of Ares Zuvel's command still ringing in her ears. He had never liked her—that much she had always known—but never before had he been so openly dismissive, so mercilessly direct. To be expelled from his mansion like an unwelcome intruder, with not even the courtesy of an elder, was a humiliation she had not anticipated.
Had she overstepped?
The question gnawed at her as she replayed the moment again and again. There had been women before—countless ones—who tried to worm their way into Ares's life by way of little Shay. Beatrice herself had made sure none of them lingered. She had mocked them, intimidated them, driven them off with calculated cruelty, and Ares had never intervened. He hadn't cared enough to notice. Or perhaps he had cared so little that it was beneath him.
So what's different now?
Her gaze slid back to the woman standing beside Shay. Tall and slender, back straight and chin lifted high. Composed in a way that felt unnervingly natural, as though she belonged there, a queen presiding over her court.
Beatrice studied her closely, irritation twisting into something sharper, more uneasy. Shay clung to the woman's hand, small fingers wrapped tight, her body angled protectively toward her—as if she feared even a moment of separation. It was not the casual affection of a child toward a caretaker. It was an attachment. Dependence—which Shay did not show to her, the grandmother.
Who was she, really, to inspire that kind of loyalty? And why had Ares—of all people—drawn a line in the sand for her?
Beatrice's jaw tightened. With a practiced flick of her hair, she turned and walked away, heels clicking in clipped, furious rhythm. Anger simmered beneath her composed exterior, hot and bitter, but it was laced with something else now—caution.
Because no matter how furious she was, one truth remained unshakable.
Who would dare defy Ares Zuvel and live to regret it?
Only then did Shay finally relax.
The tightness in her small shoulders eased, and the wary look in her eyes softened—but only a little. She wanted to call out to Lara, to wrap her arms around her legs and say the word that trembled on the tip of her tongue when she was being bullied. Mommy.
But even at her young age, Shay understood the danger of it. She knew that word carried weight here, that it could cause Lara problems.
So she swallowed it.
Without a word, Shay slipped her hand into Lara's and tugged gently, as if afraid Lara might disappear if she let go. She led her toward the grand spiral staircase, its polished banister curling upward like a silent promise. Each step echoed softly as they climbed to the second floor.
Shay pushed open her bedroom door first.
The room burst with color—soft pink walls, a chandelier shaped like a crown, shelves lined with storybooks and porcelain figurines. A Disney princess kingdom, carefully curated and unmistakably loved. It smelled faintly of strawberries and baby powder. From Shay's room, an adjoining door led into another space —Lara's room
She stepped inside and felt an unexpected sense of relief. The room was painted a clean, calming white, accented with minimal décor—simple lines, warm lighting, and a large window that let the afternoon sun spill across the floor. No excess. No childish frills. It felt… intentional.
Did this belong to someone who was here before me? Lara thought.
Across the hallway, a door stood slightly ajar — Ares' bedroom.
The proximity made Lara's chest tighten. Close enough to feel watched. Close enough that privacy felt like a luxury she hadn't earned yet.
"Mommy," Shay said softly, her voice hopeful now, almost shy. "Do you like your room?"
The word landed gently, spoken only where no one else could hear.
"I like it," Lara replied, and she meant it. The sincerity surprised even her.
She rolled her suitcase toward the closet and opened it—and froze.
Inside hung neatly arranged clothes: sleepwear folded with care, athletic outfits, lounge pieces, even a sleek evening gown still wrapped in protective plastic. Everything in her size. Everything new.
A chill traced down her spine.
Had someone been here before her? Someone who fit just as easily into this space? Someone who had left without a trace?
How could this have been prepared in advance?
Before she could voice the question, a low, controlled voice spoke behind her.
"They're new."
Lara turned. Ares stood in the doorway, his presence quiet but overwhelming, as though the room itself bent around him.
"Rest assured," he continued, his tone unreadable, "no one has used them."
She studied his face for signs—anything that hinted at truth or deception—but found neither. Just certainty.
Lara nodded and turned back to the closet, carefully tucking her clothes inside, as though treating the space with caution might somehow protect her.
"Lunch is at 12:00. Shay, you lead Miss Reyes to the dining room."
"Yes, Daddy," Shay answered obediently.
A moment later, the nanny arrived and gently ushered Shay away for her bath, her small hand lingering in Lara's for one last heartbeat before letting go.
The door closed.
Silence followed.
For the first time since arriving, Lara was alone.
She stood in the center of the room, slowly turning in a circle, taking in the pristine walls, the untouched bed, the faint hum of a life that had been prepared for her without her consent.
She looked around but didn't know what she was looking for—she just knew she was supposed to look for something.
And somehow, that unsettled her more than anything else.
...
A shrill, persistent ringing cut through the stillness, dragging Lara back from her drifting thoughts.
She frowned and reached for the old phone tucked deep inside her bag. Its black screen flickered to life, the words Caller Unknown flashing insistently, as if daring her to answer.
For a long second, she considered letting it ring out. Whoever it was had no business reaching her here. Not now. Not ever.
But instinct—or perhaps something darker—made her slide her finger across the screen.
"Lara Fuegerro," a man's voice barked the moment the line connected, sharp with fury and authority. "You have the nerve to disobey me?"
The sound of it sent a cold ripple through her chest. The voice was unfamiliar, yet it carried an unsettling weight, like an echo from a life she no longer claimed.
Her grip tightened around the phone.
"You've got the wrong number," Lara replied evenly, her tone calm, distant, almost bored. "There is no Lara Fuegerro here."
On the other end of the line, the man slowly pulled the phone away from his ear, his brows knitting together as he stared at the screen. He checked the number once. Then again.
It was correct.
The call ended abruptly.
In a lavish office miles away, Artemio slammed his fist against the desk, his face contorted with rage.
"How dare she," he snarled, pacing like a caged animal. "How dare she!"
This had been a test. A simple one. He had expected hesitation—fear, confusion, even denial. But her voice had been too steady. Too cleanly detached.
She didn't really remember.
Amnesia.
And yet, doubt lingered. Artemio's eyes narrowed, calculation replacing fury. He reached for his phone again and dialed another number. His tone was low, precise, and dangerous. When the call ended, a slow smirk curved his lips.
"Ha," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Let's see how long you can keep up this little pretense."
Some games, after all, were far from over.