Flames POV
I didn't say anything. I just slammed the door shut behind me, the sound of it echoing through the quiet.
I locked it. The authoritative click ran a shiver of self-satisfaction through me.
Let him try again. I won't miss it next time.
I stood there, breathing deeply, the remnants of anger still simmering beneath my skin.
What had just happened? Was I really that angry? It didn't matter. It wasn't just about him barging in. It wasn't just his audacity to assume he had the right to invade my space. It was about him thinking—no, believing—that I needed someone to protect me.
But I didn't. I never had, and I sure as hell didn't need him.
I walked back to the bed, the click of my boots against the hardwood floor grounding me. I sank onto the edge, letting the anger simmer down, but beneath that, something else simmered—certainty. He couldn't rattle me. Not now. Not ever.
I didn't need anyone to take care of me. I never had. I'd been living on my own terms long before he showed up, and I'd keep doing it.
The silence in the room felt suffocating, but I welcomed it. At least it was mine. At least it wasn't someone else's voice telling me what to do or how to feel.
Why did I feel this restless itch? Maybe because I hated the idea of anyone thinking they could make decisions for me. I hated how he tried to make me feel like I was fragile, like I couldn't handle myself.
But I knew the truth. I didn't need his protection. I didn't need anyone's help.
I looked at the door, still shut. The space was mine. All mine.
Good. Let him stay out there. Let him cool off. Because the next time he tried something like this, there wouldn't be a door between us. There'd be a wall that he couldn't get past.
I wasn't weak. I didn't need him. Not now, not ever.
I leaned back against the headboard, eyes narrowing on the window, the dark sky beyond. It was calm. Just like I needed it to be. Just like I needed me to be.
I'd keep it that way. And no one—especially not him—was going to change it.
---
One week later
The lawyer propped his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose as though he had the world at his fingertips, but I could feel the tension fracturing the room like delicate glass on the cusp of detonation.
I stood frozen—cold, emotionless—as I watched everyone disintegrate in slow motion.
Lydia's gold bracelet whirled on her wrist, a nervous tick she probably hadn't even realized she'd developed. Sia sat beside her, staring at the carpet as if she could simply will herself into it if she tried hard enough. Isadora Perez, my stepmother, was dressed as if she'd been assembled from a lexicon of funeral attire—black silk, pearls, red lips. But not sorrow gazed back at her from her eyes. It was anticipation. Starvation.
The lawyer's voice cut through the silence.
"Don Mantio Perez's last will is as follows."
I did not blink. But I heard Lydia gasp a breath.
"To my daughter, Flames Perez."
Lydia's head whipped toward me.
"I leave full ownership of my estate, including the mansion, private accounts, international assets, company shares, and the key to the vault below Casa Perez."
Click.
Lydia's bracelet went stiff in mid-spin.
I didn't smile, but my mouth shook at the corners. The vault. He left the vault to me.
"What?" Lydia's voice snapped, sharp and high.
The attorney didn't blink. "To my stepdaughters Lydia and Sia, I leave a memento of remembrance: a beach condo in Marbella, between them, and an annual allowance of no more than $30,000."
A moment of silence.
Lydia sprang to her feet. "You're kidding me?" She had shouted, the words spilling out shrill and filled with disbelief. "That can't be true. I lived there. I took care of—he said I was like a daughter—"
Sia caught at her arm, trying to bring her down. She was pale, blinking in slow disbelief, lips open but not speaking. As if the words did not fit in her mouth.
Did she get everything?" Lydia snapped her finger at me as if I had not been present the whole time. "Every single thing? Are we just side characters in some kind of twisted joke?"
"Please do sit down, Miss Lydia," replied the lawyer, his eyes never leaving her.
Isadora had not moved. Not an inch. I looked around to get a glimpse at her now. Her smile was gone. Her face was serious.
The lawyer continued, his voice even, too even. "And to my wife, Isadora Perez—"
Her eyes lifted.
"——Her legacy and final share shall be read two years from now, by another document, under one condition…"
Pause. Allow the room to exhale.
"She must remain in the family house until then and may not invalidate this will."
Boom.
Isadora blinked. Once. Twice. "What?" Her voice was razor sharp. "That… that wasn't the arrangement."
The lawyer didn't respond. He just looked down again, as if waiting for the explosion.
Isadora stood up so fast her chair scraped back with a screech. "That son of a—he promised me—he told me I'd get—"
She looked at me, face twisting into something ugly and raw. "This is your doing."
I nodded, smiling enough to infuriate her. "You think I could manage a dead man's hand?"
"Show Mantio was many things," she snarled, "but he was not foolish."
"Exactly." I stood up, the atmosphere around me shifting. "He wasn't foolish. That's why he didn't trust you."
Isadora's mouth dropped open as if she'd like to spit something at me, but nothing came out. Her fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles whitened.
Lydia came up to her. "You knew he was writing us out?"
"I knew nothing!" she screamed, voice cracking. "I gave that man my life—"
"If you did, he wouldn't be dead," I sneered, face mocking.
The lawyer cleared his throat, trying to get a grip again. "If there are no further questions—"
"Nonsense" Isadora pickied up her purse.
—
As soon as the others went out of the room—Lydia still with her mouth halfway open, Isadora reducing the carpet to embers, Sia trailing silently behind them like a phantom—the lawyer gave me one look.
That glance.
The sort that told me, There's more. But not to their advantage.
He gestured toward an adorning side room piled high with dusty books and too much mahogany. I remained silent. Simply walked on ahead, heels snapping sharp and determined. He shut the door after us like shutting a confession.
"Tell me," I said, crossing my arms.
He tugged on his tie, then opened another envelope—thinner, sealed in red wax. My father's private seal. The snake wrapping around the dagger.
This wasn't to be read aloud," he began, voice lowered now. "Your father left a final condition—one that has directly to do with your inheritance."
I didn't blink, but I could sense the cold crawl down my spine like old habit awakening.
He unfolded the paper. "Don Mantio instructed that Ash Calderon, whom he appointed to your personal security, is to remain in the family home. With you. You are not to reject him, impede him, or drive him away in any form."