Don Rafael Alejandro de Ortega was a man carved from legacy—old money, colder power. Tall, broad-shouldered, with silver at his temples and silence that made others shrink.

But once, he was just Rafa—a reckless boy tearing through the city with Elias Cruz on stolen afternoons. They were brothers in all but blood, fire and steel. Elias stayed. Built a home. A family.

Rafael built an empire.

When Elias called him after years apart—“Come visit. Just for a while.”—Rafael said yes. Out of loyalty. Not weakness.

Then she walked into the room.

Barefoot. Laughing. A glass of something cold in her hand.

“You remember my daughter?” Elias said, beaming. “She just turned nineteen.”

Rafael did remember her—small, clingy, always asking to be carried on his shoulders.

Now she was… delicate. Grown. Devastating.

“You smell the same,” she said, smiling. “I remembered before I even saw you.”

Her voice tangled with something inside him.

He shouldn’t have looked. Shouldn’t have felt. But he did.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

She tilted her head. “So have you.”

Then her father left the room.

The silence turned sharp.

“You’re not what I expected,” she whispered.

“And you’re exactly what I shouldn’t want,” Don Rafael replied.