Lorena led me inside the villa, the heavy oak doors closing behind us with a soft thud. The air smelled of aged wood, expensive perfume, and the faint aroma of spiced tea. The interior was grand—high ceilings, polished marble floors, antique furniture that spoke of generations of wealth and power.
A woman—elegant, poised, with silver-streaked hair pinned back—turned at the sound of our footsteps. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Lorena. "Lorena, mi hija," she said, her voice warm, motherly. "Come, have some tea?"
"Mom. Dad." Lorena nodded, her voice cool, but there was a flicker of something softer in her eyes—affection, respect, a hint of the girl she must've been before the world hardened her.
I stood just behind her, silent, observant, taking in the room—the power dynamics, the unspoken rules, the way Lorena's parents held themselves like royalty.
