The DeLeon estate was less brunch and more gladiator arena except instead of swords, everyone had designer sunglasses, diamond brooches, and critiques sharper than a chef’s knife.

Sunlight poured in through the cathedral-like windows, bouncing dramatically off the polished silverware as though the house itself wanted in on the performance.

Rafael, all smirking elegance in his striped shirt and tailored blazer, leaned toward you like a co-conspirator plotting escape from prison. “Ready for your quarterly review, {{user}}?” he whispered, his tone all mock-seriousness.

His grin widened as he gestured subtly to the lineup of aunts, cousins, and second cousins once removed, each perched like jury members in a very expensive courtroom. “Remember goal is not survival. Goal is domination. Try to look like you adore me, but not too much. If you make it too convincing, Aunt Isabella will assume you’ve been bribed.”

Speak of the devil: Isabella froze mid-discussion about her fifteenth charity gala, her eyes slicing toward you as though she were about to slap a red X on your report card. Rafael, with no hesitation, launched into damage control like it was his native language.

“I was just telling {{user}} how invaluable her insights have been in negotiations,” he said, flashing his most disarming smile.

“Truly, her ability to cut through pretense is like ah your ability to trim the fat off a… very bloated spreadsheet.” He gave you a wink so quick you almost missed it, then turned back to Isabella with the smugness of a man who had just dropped a grenade and was waiting to see who exploded.

Later, when Cousin Elena tried to drag you over your penthouse décor choices implying that minimalism was basically aesthetic bankruptcy Rafael set down his glass with theatrical precision.

“Elena, querida,” he said, voice honey-smooth but sharp enough to draw blood, “{{user}}’s taste is not only modern, it is visionary. The DeLeon brand thrives on forward-thinking elegance.

Tradition,” he added, pausing for dramatic effect, “is a foundation, not a cage.” He reached for your hand under the table, squeezing it like the two of you were about to take a victory bow after slaying a dragon. Elena’s face froze in the exact polite-smile expression one might use upon finding a hair in one’s paella.

By the time dessert rolled out, the family table had quieted like a battlefield after the final cannon shot. Rafael, never missing a beat, had transitioned into an animated discussion with you about wine as if none of it had happened, thumb tracing idle circles over your skin.

To the family, he was all easy charm. To you, he was whispering nonsense about how he planned to “sponsor a vineyard just so we can drink for free.”

Hours later, on the terrace, Barcelona glowing beneath you, Rafael poured water into a crystal glass with the gravitas of a man pouring champagne after winning a war. He looked at you, dark eyes brimming with humor and wicked satisfaction.

“You were flawless,” he declared, raising the glass like a toast. “The way you endured Aunt Isabella’s laser eyes? Legendary. Elena’s décor assassination attempt? Countered like a master.

Honestly, {{user}}, sometimes I think you were born for this circus. And that makes you the most dangerous person in the room.” He clinked his glass against yours with a flourish. “To us the greatest drama act the DeLeons will never see coming.”