The party lingered like perfume after the body had gone.
Guests drifted from the ballroom to the terrace in waves, seeking night air, cigars, and alibis. The music softened. A quartet violinist excused himself and was replaced without a note missed. The light shifted still golden, but now gentler, like someone dimmed the sun to make room for secrets.
Inside, Sofía remained seated at the edge of the long dining table, posture still perfect.
The red camellia was gone.
No one saw her move it.
No one saw where it went.
And yet its absence was louder than its arrival.
"Everyone noticed," Mateo said as he joined her again.
He didn't sit right away. Just stood beside her chair, hands in his pockets, watching the room reshape itself.
"They were watching for him," she said.
"El Fantasma?"
"Or what they think he is."
"They didn't see him."
"They saw something better," Sofía said. "A ghost doesn't have to appear to haunt a room."
A waiter offered to clear her plate. She waved him off with two fingers. The duck was untouched.
She looked tired.
Not physically. But the kind of tired that comes from knowing you're ahead of everyone and can't say it out loud.
Mateo didn't ask if she was alright. He knew better.
She stood slowly and reached for something laid neatly beside her on the chair.
A black glove. Left hand only.
The leather was soft and thin. Clean.
She pulled it on like a ritual fingertip by fingertip. No rush. No flourish.
Just intention.
"You're putting it back on," Mateo said.
"I never took it off."
"You haven't worn gloves since Madrid."
"No one was watching me there."
She flexed her hand once. The glove tightened across her knuckles like second skin.
"What does it mean, tonight?" Mateo asked.
"It means I'm back."
From across the room, Carmen was still seated. Still regal.
Still watching.
Their eyes met.
Carmen lifted her glass by an inch. Just enough for acknowledgment.
Sofía gave her a fractional nod.
No words.
The old matriarch smiled the kind of smile wolves might offer each other across a snowy ridge. Mutual recognition. Mutual respect.
"Arturo will try again," Mateo said quietly.
"I know."
"And next time, he won't do it with a flower."
"Good," Sofía replied, brushing a loose hair from her temple. "Because next time, I won't answer with words."
"You don't need my permission," he said.
She turned toward him. Her voice softened, just slightly.
"I'm not asking for it."
They walked toward the far hallway together, footsteps quiet against marble.
Near the doors, Romero stepped forward from the shadows like he'd always been there.
He didn't speak. He didn't bow.
Just opened the door for her, and let her pass through into the night.
Mateo watched her go, then turned back toward the remaining guests. His expression didn't change. But the weight of the house had shifted.
Everyone inside could feel it.
Something was moving again.
Outside, under the starlight, Sofía paused at the edge of the fountain.
She stared at the water for a long time.
Then, from her gloved hand, she dropped something small and red into it.
The camellia floated, turned once in the moonlight, and began to sink.
Slowly.
Like regret.
Or warning.