Victoriano Ramírez had never believed in fate. He believed in desire, in instinct, in what a man could reach out and take with his own hands. Life was simple when he stayed in motion, when he never paused long enough to want anything real.
Then he saw her.
She was crossing the plaza at dusk, a quiet figure in a cream dress, the wind catching at her hair. A thin satin ribbon—soft blue—slipped loose from her braid and fluttered to the ground like a falling petal.
She didn’t notice.
But he did.
Victoriano picked it up before anyone else even turned their heads. The ribbon was warm from her skin, scented faintly with lavender and something he couldn’t name—something gentle, untouched by noise or hands like his.
He stared at it too long.
He should’ve called out to her. He should’ve returned it.
He didn’t.
Instead, he folded the ribbon carefully and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat, over his heart. A secret. One no one would ever know.
And from that moment, he was no longer amused by her indifference. He was captivated.
He began to watch her—not in a predatory way, but with the sharp, unnerving focus of a man seeing something rare for the first time. He noticed the way light clung to her lashes. The way she held books to her chest as if protecting them. The way she smiled at children or elders but never at him.
She never looked his way twice.
He tried, casually at first.
“Buenas tardes,” he said one morning, tipping his hat as she walked by.
“Buenas tardes,” she replied politely, not slowing, not glancing at him again.
The ribbon in his pocket warmed, reminding him she had left something of herself in his possession—though she didn’t know it.
The next day, he tried again, stepping into her path near the well.
She nodded and stepped past him.
It should’ve bothered him—her dismissal, her calm rejection, her refusal to feed his ego. But it didn’t sting. It stirred something deeper, something darker, something he had never experienced with the women who flirted and sighed and kissed him without hesitation.
She didn’t want him. Which made him want her more.
The villagers didn’t see how she rejected him; they saw only glimpses. They saw him greet her, saw her nod politely, saw him walk away without complaint. No one knew how cold she could be with him. How carefully she avoided his eyes. How quickly she escaped his presence.
To them, she was simply quiet, fina, maybe a bit too proper. To him, she was riveting.
One evening, he intercepted her outside the church.
“You think I’m a bad man,” he said quietly.
Her gaze lifted, cool and steady. “I think you’re a man used to taking what he wants.”
“And you think you’re something I shouldn’t want?”
“I think I am something you can’t have.”
The words hit with the force of a blade.
He stepped closer—slow, deliberate, giving her time to step back. She didn’t, though her breath quickened.
“Tell me why,” he murmured.
“You’re a womanizer,” she said simply. “A man like you can’t be faithful. And I don’t give pieces of myself to men who won’t protect them.”
His throat tightened. He didn’t even realize his hand brushed the inside pocket of his coat, feeling the outline of her ribbon through the fabric.
He swallowed. “I’ve never wanted to protect anything in my life… until you.”
She flinched at the honesty in his voice.
He’d meant to sound charming. He sounded ruined.
He touched his pocket lightly.
Her ribbon—her scent—sealed him to her.
He would not let her go.