Chapter 3 What Wives Are For

• ELARA
• The music from the ballroom spilled out into the garden like laughter you weren’t invited to join. I sat alone on the cold stone bench, the hem of my little blue dress brushing against my ankles, my fingers twisting the ribbon tied at my waist. My shoes pinched, my feet hurt, and my chest felt tight from holding back tears.
• I was ten, but I felt invisible.
• The adults inside didn’t notice I’d slipped away. My parents were too busy smiling for cameras, shaking hands with people whose names I couldn’t remember. They had warned me to “behave,” which really meant: stay out of the way.
• I buried my face in my hands and tried to quiet the sob that threatened to escape.
• “Are you lost?”
• The voice was deep, older, and made me freeze. I looked up and saw a boy—though he was probably more of a young man—standing at the edge of the garden path. He looked maybe nineteen or twenty, tall and broad-shouldered in a fitted black suit. His hair was black and swept back from his forehead, his jaw sharp even though his face still held the softness of youth.
• I sniffed and wiped at my face. “No,” I whispered.
• He stepped closer, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Then why are you crying?”
• I stared at my shoes, ashamed. “I’m not crying.”
• He crouched down in front of me, and I could smell his cologne—something warm and clean. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a white handkerchief.
• “Here,” he said quietly. “Wipe your face.”
• I hesitated, but he held it out patiently. My small fingers brushed his as I took it, and I pressed the soft fabric to my wet cheeks.
• “There’s no need to cry,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “People only notice when you cry. And when they notice, they see you as weak. Don’t give them that.”
• I looked at him, wide-eyed, trying to understand. He was the first person all night who had looked at me—really looked at me.
• “Thank you,” I whispered.
• He nodded once, then stood. He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to keep him in view. “Keep it,” he said, nodding at the handkerchief.
• Before I could ask his name, he turned and walked away, his silhouette disappearing back into the glowing ballroom.
• I clutched the handkerchief in both hands and stared at the spot where he had been, the echo of his words settling deep in my heart.
• I didn’t know it then, but that fleeting kindness would follow me for years.
• ---
• I woke with the same memory lodged in my chest like a splinter.
• The morning light filtered through the tall windows of my bedroom, casting pale gold patterns across the walls. I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, my mind lingering on that garden, that handkerchief, that boy.
• That boy was now my husband.
• Mateo Navarro.
• The first person who had ever been kind to me. And now the one I hated most.
• I rolled onto my side and stared at the ring on my finger. It glinted in the sunlight, cold and heavy. I had thought about throwing it away more than once, but the thought always ended the same way: with Mateo’s voice, low and dangerous, warning me what would happen if I embarrassed him.
• A knock sounded at the door.
• I sat up quickly. “Yes?”
• The door opened and a maid stepped in, her head bowed. “Mrs. Navarro, breakfast is ready. Mr. Navarro asked me to fetch you.”
• “I’ll come down,” I said softly.
• She gave a nervous nod and slipped away, closing the door behind her.
• I rose from the bed and smoothed the simple cream dress I had chosen, the one that covered me from collarbone to knee. I looked presentable. Neutral. I had learned to be invisible here.
• As I descended the grand staircase, I heard voices drifting from the dining room. Mateo’s deep, commanding tone and—of course—a woman’s lighter, flirtatious laughter.
• I stepped into the doorway and froze.
• Mateo sat at the head of the long table, dressed in a crisp dark suit, his storm-grey eyes as sharp as ever. At his side was a woman I didn’t recognize, tall and stunning with glossy dark hair and a dress that clung to her like it had been painted on. She was laughing at something Mateo had said, her hand brushing his arm like it belonged there.
• Mateo’s gaze flicked to me for the briefest second, unreadable, before sliding away as if I didn’t matter.
• “Good morning,” I said quietly.
• The woman turned her head and gave me a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “You must be the wife,” she said, her tone dripping with amusement.
• “Yes,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
• She smirked and leaned closer to Mateo. “She’s… quiet, isn’t she?”
• “She knows her place,” Mateo said simply, and poured himself another cup of coffee.
• I clenched my hands at my sides, forcing myself to stay calm. “Would you like me to serve?” I asked.
• He didn’t even look at me when he answered. “Yes. And don’t just stand there.”
• I moved to the sideboard and began plating food—fresh bread, eggs, fruit—placing each dish carefully on the table. The woman watched me the entire time, her gaze openly mocking.
• “She’s pretty,” she said at last, her voice laced with something sharp. “In a… fragile way.”
• Mateo said nothing.
• I placed the last dish on the table and stepped back, my heart hammering. “Do you need anything else?”
• “No,” Mateo said, finally glancing at me. His eyes lingered for half a heartbeat, but there was no softness there. Only that cool detachment I had come to know so well.
• “You may go,” he said.
• I nodded and turned, walking out of the dining room as steadily as I could manage. I could feel the woman’s smile on my back, feel the weight of their laughter as I stepped into the hallway.
• ---
• The rest of the morning passed in a haze. I wandered the halls of the mansion, memorizing every turn, every door, every staircase. I knew I wasn’t free to leave, but if I ever had the chance, I needed to know this place.
• I paused in front of a locked door on the east wing. It had a heavy brass handle and no visible keyhole. I reached for it anyway, testing it gently. Locked.
• “Don’t touch that.”
• I spun around, my heart leaping to my throat.
• Mateo stood a few feet behind me, his hands in his pockets, his presence filling the hallway like a shadow.
• “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I was just—”
• “Curious?” He stepped closer, his voice low. “That door is off-limits.”
• I swallowed hard. “Yes, Mateo.”
• His grey eyes searched my face for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from my cheek, the touch so unexpected I flinched.
• “Good girl,” he said softly.
• Then he turned and walked away, leaving me frozen in the hallway, my skin burning where his fingers had touched.
• That night, I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.
• The house was quiet now, the kind of silence that pressed on you like a weight. I thought about the locked door. About the handkerchief I had hidden in the lining of my old suitcase, the one from the boy who had once been kind to me.
• That boy was gone.
• In his place was Mateo Navarro—the man who had taken my freedom, my name, and my future.
• I closed my eyes and let the hatred settle in my chest, heavy and steady like a heartbeat.