Forsaking the Script

Elena watched Luzia carefully, her expression laced with concern. Without a word, she led her through the winding paths of the estate's garden, away from prying eyes and suffocating walls. The scent of night-blooming flowers lingered in the air, mixing with the crisp coolness of the evening breeze.

The sun was sinking into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet. Beyond the garden's hedges, an expanse of rolling green stretched endlessly, its tranquility a stark contrast to the storm raging inside Luzia's chest.

She froze mid-step.

This place… I know it.

Her gaze swept over the familiar landscape, and unbidden, a memory surfaced—Ignacio, older, standing right here beside her. The wind had been gentle that day, the same way it was now.

In that memory, his expression had been unreadable, but his presence had been steady. Warm.

Now, he barely looked at her without resentment shadowing his face.