“DON’T TOUCH HIM,” THEY WARNED YOU. YOU BOUGHT HIM ANYWAY… AND THAT NIGHT YOU LEARNED WHY MEN WOULD RATHER BURN THEIR SILVER THAN KEEP HIM CLOSE.

That night, sleep circles you but never lands. Widowhood has turned your bed into a wide space where silence feels heavier than another body. You think of your marriage, how it was arranged like a business deal between surnames, how affection was treated like an unnecessary expense. You think of Aurelio’s smile at church, the way he charmed people into trusting him, the way his papers always seemed in order. Now those papers are choking you, and every creditor in Veracruz can smell weakness the way dogs smell blood. You also think of Nahuel’s eyes, and it unsettles you that you remember them so clearly. Not because you are drawn to him in a foolish, romantic way, but because he looked at you like you were not untouchable. He looked at you like you were accountable. That kind of gaze is rare in your world, especially directed at a young widow expected to obey. By dawn, you’ve decided you didn’t buy a worker. You bought a question you can’t put back.