Your stomach drops.
You know that face.
Not because you’ve seen him in person before. Because his photographs are framed in the downstairs corridor, in business magazines left in the sitting room, in the silver-plated article clipping Teresa once pointed out with a mix of pride and fear. Adrián Santillán. Owner of the house. Widower. Magnate. The man everyone warned you about.
And Daniel.
Daniel had his eyes.
The realization strikes like cold water.
You rise too fast, nearly cutting your fingers on a porcelain edge. “I’m sorry, sir. The tray—”
Adrián’s gaze falls to your hand. “You’re bleeding.”
Only then do you feel it. A thin red line along the side of your thumb where a shard kissed skin.
“It’s nothing,” you say automatically.
He crosses the room in three quick steps, crouches, and takes your wrist before you can react. His grip is firm, not painful, but the sheer shock of being touched by the master of the house in such a direct, practical way roots you in place.
“It’s not nothing if it gets infected,” he says.
You stare at him.
This is the man who was supposed to be away. The man everyone in the house adjusts their breathing around. The man who, until twenty seconds ago, had been walking these halls in stained coveralls testing your character like some rich king in a cruel folktale.
Heat rises into your face, but not from embarrassment.
From betrayal.
He notices the change immediately.
“You know,” he says quietly.
You pull your hand back. “Daniel.”
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