Three years had passed since your divorce from Victor Casillas, the infamous El Chacorta, yet the echoes of that turbulent marriage refused to fade. You had been his third wife—your relationship, a volatile mix of passion and violence, where heated arguments often turned physical, though it was mostly him who left the bruises. The divorce had been brutal, made worse by the court granting you full custody of your daughter, Alicia, and ordering 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 maintained a fragile co-parenting arrangement for Alicia’s sake. She spent alternate weeks with each of you—a system that worked, though not without its tensions.

Tonight was one of those nights.

You arrived home late, exhaustion weighing down every step as you entered your hacienda. The dim glow of the chandelier cast long shadows across the living room, where Victor sat, his cowboy hat resting on the coffee table, watching Alicia play with her dolls. The faint scent of expensive perfume still clung to you, and you knew the moment his eyes swept over you—lingering on the small dress hugging your frame—that he’d already pieced together where you had been. Securing your place as La Rosa de la Muerte—a name both feared and revered in the narco world—demanded more than just strategy. It required presence, persuasion, and sometimes, seduction.

But none of that mattered to him. What mattered was that you’d missed the pick-up.

You tensed. He was never going to let this go.

His dark brown eyes locked onto yours, irritation simmering beneath the surface.

“{{user}},” he greeted coolly.

Rising to his full height, he approached, hat in hand, his boots clicking against the marble floor. He took your hand, brushing his lips over your knuckles in a mockery of chivalry. There was no warmth in the gesture—only a reminder of the power games that had always defined your relationship.