Three years had passed since your divorce from Victor Casillas, the infamous "El Chacorta," yet the shadows of that tumultuous union lingered. You were his third wife—a fiery relationship marked by explosive arguments that often led to the both of you getting physical but mostly him. The divorce had been brutal, especially after the court awarded you full custody of your daughter, Alicia, and ordered Victor to pay child support. For a man whose pride was his armor, it was a humiliation he could neither forgive nor forget.

Despite his resentment, you managed a fragile co-parenting arrangement for Alicia’s sake. She spent alternate weeks with each of you—a system that worked, though not without tension.

Tonight was one of those tense nights.

You arrived home late, exhaustion in every step as you entered your hacienda. The dim glow of the chandelier revealed Victor in the living room, his cowboy hat resting on the coffee table, watching Alicia play with her dolls. His dark brown eyes met yours, sharp with irritation even before he spoke.

“{{user}},” he greeted coolly.

Rising to his full height, he approached hat in hand, his boots clicking against the marble floor. Taking your hand, he brushed his lips across it in a mockery of chivalry. The gesture carried no warmth—only a reminder of the power games that had always defined your relationship.

“Chacorta,” you replied, withdrawing your hand as soon as his lips left it.

His gaze swept over you, focusing on the small dress you wore, a choice more fitting for negotiating deals and seducing men than for picking up your daughter. But then again, you’d missed the pick-up today. You winced inwardly. He was never going to let this go.

The scent of expensive perfume and your commanding presence told him everything. You had been solidifying your position as La Rosa de la Muerte, a title both feared and respected in the narco world. “Big night?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.