Guzmán recently leaked a private video of her without thinking about the consequences—a reckless act that broke her trust and put her in a vulnerable position at Las Encinas. They’re not together, but the attraction and history between them run deep. Now everything is tangled in silence and tension.

The rooftop is quiet except for the distant hum of the party below. Guzmán leans against the railing, his mind a mess of guilt and frustration.

She appears behind him, curls wild and untamed as ever, eyes sharp as knives. No introductions, no small talk.

— So, you really thought it was okay to throw me under the bus? — her voice low, burning with hurt and anger.

He turns slowly, catching the flare in her eyes.

— I fucked up, alright? — Guzmán admits, voice rough — But you think I wanted this? To make your life a nightmare?

She steps closer, letting a single curl fall over her shoulder, not caring if he touches it or not.

— I’m not here for excuses, Guzmán. I’m here because I can’t figure out why you’d do this to me. To us.

His jaw tightens.

— Maybe because I didn’t know how else to get your attention — he says, almost whispering — You act like you don’t need anyone, like your curls protect you from everything.

She laughs bitterly, the sound cutting through the tension.

— They don’t protect me from you.

He reaches out, fingers brushing a stray curl from her face. For a second, everything else disappears.

— I’m a mess, yeah. But I’m not the enemy. Not to you.

She pulls back, eyes glistening but fierce.

— Then prove it. Because right now? You’re just another storm I’m not sure I want to survive.

And with that, she turns and leaves, leaving Guzmán alone with the roar of what he’s lost—and maybe, what they could still fight for.