—Yeah.
—And he never told me anything?
—Because if you knew, they could use you to get to me.
Ella sintió rabia. Dolor. Traición.
Y, en medio de todo, algo peor.
Una certeza.
—Anoche… —dijo lentamente— mi padre no te eligió al azar.
—No.
—Él quería que yo me casara contigo desde el principio.
Zafir no respondió.
No hizo falta.
Porque la verdad ya estaba entre ambos como un animal despierto.
Don Hassan no le había dado tres opciones reales.
Le había puesto dos trampas… y una salida.
Y Amira, por primera vez en su vida, había escogido bien.
III
La luna de miel fue una farsa para la prensa.
Pero una jugada maestra para la guerra.
Las revistas publicaron titulares venenosos:
“La heredera y el esposo enmascarado huyen a una isla privada.”
“¿Amor o pacto empresarial?”
“El misterio de Zafir Alsaba enciende las redes.”
Lo que nadie sabía era que no estaban de vacaciones.
Estaban cazando.
The private island in the Sea of Cortez belonged to a wallpaper that, on paper, was not linked to either the Salgados or the Alsaba. There were no paparazzi there. There were no partners. There were no easy spies.
Just a modern mansion of light stone, dark sea and silence.
Amira spent the first night reviewing leaked contracts in a room with huge windows.
Zafir spent that same night hacking —or rather taking apart— three financial diversion routes linked to a Khalil offshore account.
At three in the morning, they were both still awake.
At four o'clock, Amira dropped a folder on the table.
—Here —he said, pointing to a repeated signature—. This shell company bought toxic debt from our construction companies two years ago. He absorbed it... and then started blackmailing permits.
Zafir brought the laptop screen closer.
—Matches these transfers. They left a private security subsidiary linked to Amar.
Amira let out a humorless laugh.
—Clear. The useless guy just looked stupid.
—Dangerous men rarely announce that they are dangerous.
She looked up.
He too.
And for the first time since the wedding, the air between them changed.
It wasn't romanticism.
Not yet.
It was something else.
Recognition.
Respect.
Two people used to fighting alone, discovering, by force, what it was like to have someone at the same height.
Hours later, when dawn barely painted the horizon cold blue, Amira went out to the terrace with a cup of coffee.
Zafir was already there.
Without mask.
With your back to the sea.
She stopped.
Not because I hadn't already seen it.
But because seeing him like this, in the open light of day, without shadow or cloth or defense, made him seem more vulnerable... and more dangerous at the same time.
He didn't turn around right away.
—You can stop looking at me like I'm a classified file.
Amira raised an eyebrow.
—I wasn't looking at you.
—You lie wrong.
She let out a small exhale, almost a laugh.
Miraculously, the world did not end because of it.
