You don’t even get a full foot out of the car before Maria Castillo is hugging you.

“Oh mi amor! She’s beautiful, Xavier! You didn’t say she was beautiful!”

You try to smile through the stunned panic. “Hi—hello—thank you, I’m—so happy to be here.”

Her perfume is soft and sweet and her grip is so strong. She pulls back and cups your face like she’s known you since birth. Xavier watches with an amused smirk, luggage still in hand.

“I made arroz caldoso,” she says proudly. “You’re too skinny. You need to eat.”

“Mother,” Xavier warns softly.

“She needs to eat,” she repeats, grabbing your wrist and marching you straight into the villa like she’s adopted you.

The inside is even prettier than the pictures — mosaic tiles, white curtains swaying in the sea breeze, little kids running across the polished stone floors.

One of them — tiny, curly-haired — runs straight up to Xavier and screams, “Tío!” before launching into his arms.

You melt. He lifts her like it’s instinct.

“Her name’s Camila,” Maria whispers in your ear. “She already loves you. Look.”

You turn — and sure enough, the little girl is staring at you with wide eyes.

You give her a tiny wave. She sprints behind Xavier’s leg like she’s seen God.

Then: Footsteps. Louder. Heavier.

You turn — and Alejandro Castillo enters like an event.

Navy shirt tucked in. Silver at his temples. Posture military straight. He’s holding a wine glass like it’s a prop.

You immediately forget how to breathe.

“You must be the lawyer.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, straightening so hard your spine cracks.

“She’s the one that beat Latham & Reyes in court last year,” Xavier adds.

"Harvard law graduate sir. Billionaire, I invest in properties etc."

Alejandro studies you like you’re a statute. “Impressive.” Then, dryly: “Let’s hope your taste in arguments is better than your taste in men.”

Xavier: “Papá.”

But you smile—nervous but steady. “That’s still under review.”

Maria snorts into her wine.

---

The sun dips lower. You change into something breezy, try not to overthink your bikini. Xavier’s sister arrives with two kids under five, immediately introducing herself with, “You look stressed. Want a drink?”

Three hours later, you're curled on a lounge chair beside Xavier, half-tipsy, hair tangled from saltwater.

One of the kids is using your foot as a boat dock. Another is braiding your hair with intense concentration.

Maria passes by and pats your shoulder. “You fit,” she says simply. “I like you. Don’t let him mess it up.”

“Not planning to,” you murmur.