Not long after, we quickly got ready and changed clothes.
There was going to be a grand banquet that morning.
Arturo, as usual, couldn't keep his hands off me, his touch wandering over my body in that playful, flirtatious way he always did. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time—maybe because I had grown used to it, or maybe because I didn't want to ruin the surface-level serenity that blanketed us like a lie.
But that serenity was only the thinnest veil, hiding a storm ready to break.
Sergio Araujo Machiavelli—Arturo's father—stood with overwhelming presence at the head of the long silk-draped table. A glass of red wine raised high in his hand, as if sealing this moment into the Machiavelli family's history.
"Well then, before you all depart… on this joyous occasion, I have a very important announcement to make."
All eyes turned toward him with anticipation.
The room fell silent, with only the faint clinking of glass lingering in the air.
