You sit in that leather chair with dark glasses on, head slightly tilted, breathing slow like a man who has already surrendered to darkness.
It’s a performance that costs you every second of your day, because you have to remember not to track footsteps with your eyes.
Not to flinch when a shadow passes.
Not to reach for things too accurately.

Cayetana believes the act because she wants to believe it.
A blind man is easier to manage.
A blind magnate is a vault with legs.
And Cayetana has been walking around your life like she already has the combination.

You hear her heels before you hear her voice, sharp clicks that slice through the mansion’s hush.
“Álvaro,” she coos, and the sweetness in it makes your stomach twist.
She pauses at the doorway to your study and lowers her tone into false concern.
“The gala is tonight. You’ll sit, smile, and let me handle everything.”

You let your face stay blank.
“I trust you,” you say, because that line makes greedy people reckless.
Cayetana exhales like she’s tasting victory.
Then she adds, casually, “The twins will stay upstairs. Inés knows to keep them quiet.”

You hear the word quiet and something cold crawls up your spine.
Quiet, in Cayetana’s mouth, doesn’t mean calm.
It means invisible.
It means convenient.

You hear a small sound from the corridor, tiny sock-feet padding too close.
Leo and Teo.
Two-year-old bodies guided by curiosity, drawn to the one person in the house who hasn’t stopped feeling like home to them: you.

Before you can speak, Cayetana snaps.
“Back. Now,” she barks, and the sound is pure impatience wearing perfume.
A tiny whimper answers.
Then you hear Inés’ voice, low and gentle, catching them like a net.

“Shh, mis soles,” Inés murmurs, and you can picture her kneeling, arms open, letting them climb her like she’s a safe tree.
“I’ll take you to your blocks. We’ll build a castle.”
Her voice steadies the air the way a hand steadies a trembling glass.

Cayetana clicks her tongue.
“Make sure they don’t come down,” she says. “The guests don’t need… noise.”
Inés answers politely, “Yes, señora.”
But you hear what Cayetana doesn’t: the hidden steel in Inés’ calm.

When Cayetana leaves, the mansion breathes out.
You hear the door slam, the faint echo of her phone call starting in the foyer.
And then Inés appears at your study doorway, careful, quiet, like she’s stepping into a church.
She doesn’t speak immediately.

“Sir,” she says at last, voice barely above a whisper.
You keep your gaze unfocused behind the glasses.
“Yes, Inés?”
Her pause is long enough that you feel your heart start to pound.

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