“Good,” he said. “Because the second thing we do is let them commit fully.”
The next few days on the ranch felt almost theatrical.
Mariana moved through the house with the bright clipped energy of a woman already mentally redecorating rooms she did not own. She instructed the florist to replace Elena’s white lilies in the front hall with imported orchids “more appropriate for investor weekends.” She spoke to the housekeeper, Rosa, as if tone itself were a currency the rich should never spend on servants. She began referring to the master suite as “our room” in a voice just loud enough to drift through doorways.
Rodrigo followed her around with the lagging posture of a man who wanted peace more than dignity.
That, more than anything, made you tired. Cruel men could at least be cataloged clearly. But weak men, men who outsourced their conscience to the loudest person in the room, spent years making everyone else pay for the comfort of their indecision. Every time Mariana snapped an order at someone, Rodrigo flinched slightly and then did nothing. Every time she discussed future renovations, expanded guest bungalows, branding partnerships, or luxury horseback retreats for foreign investors, he nodded as if his head had been rented for the season.
