The air conditioning in the dining room was set to a chill that penetrated the bone, but it was nothing compared to the frost emanating from the woman sitting at the head of the table.
Doña Consuelo, the matriarch of the Castillo empire, did not blink. She did not fidget. She sat with the posture of a queen who had long ago forgotten what mercy felt like. Her hands, adorned with diamonds heavy enough to weigh down a lesser soul, rested perfectly still on the embroidered tablecloth.
Across from me sat Clarissa. The mistress.
She was glowing, her hand resting protectively over her stomach, a mirror image of my own posture. We were both four months along. Two women, bound to the same man, carrying life in our bodies, seated at a dinner table that felt more like a courtroom.
