Page 78 of Of Vows and Betrayal

She turns toward him, her face softening slightly. “I’msorry, Father. I didn’t see you. I was too focused onmy husband.”

“No worries. I am leaving anyway. I don’t want to be a witness to your death,” he mutters softly, only for me to hear.

She gives him a tight smile.

Tiago clears his throat and steps forward, his voice gentle as he addresses Ophelia directly. “Ophelia, I’m happy to see you safe. I’ll see you again soon. I’ll be praying for you.”

“Thank you, Father,” she says, her voice wavering slightly. “I appreciate it.”

He nods, gives me one last look of warning, and exits the apartment. The door of the elevator closes behind him, leaving me alone with a seething Ophelia.

She turns to me, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt, their intensity searing into me. “So, are you going to explain this or just stand there?”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “I know this is a shock, but it was necessary to keep you safe.”

Ophelia’s hands tremble as she points at me, her eyes filled with anger. “You’re no better than them, you know. The people you despise, the ones you condemn. You make all the decisions for me, just like they do. You’re just as bad,” she spits, her voice shaking with emotion.

I grind my teeth, swallowing the retort that rises in my throat. Her father, her family, had twisted me into this. But admitting it feels like another defeat.

“For fifteen years, all I wanted was revenge against the man who killed my wife,” I confess, my voice breakingslightly.

She recoils a bit at my words, her facade cracking just enough for me to see the hurt behind it. “You already said that,” she says, as if dismissing my words, but the hurt in her eyes betrays her act.

“No, but I don’t think you understand,” I insist, knowing perfectly well it’s the wrong time. It’s too much at once, but it’s like I can’t stop myself. I need her to stop looking at me like I’m the worst thing that ever walked into her life.

You might be just that,my conscience shouts, but I smother it.

“For all these years, the destruction of your father and his entire life was all that drove me. It took me from a small-time thug to the billionaire in front of you. This hatred… this…” I shake my head, searching for the right word. “It consumed me. You were never part of the equation, and it wasn’t personal.”

Her face contorts into a fury I’ve never witnessed before, her cheeks flushing red. She grabs the vase on the console and hurls it at me. I barely dodge it, and it smashes against the penthouse window.

I don’t tell her that the vase she just broke cost over a hundred thousand dollars because I know it will only add fuel to the fire.

“Not personal?” she seethes, pointing at her chest. “It seemed quite personal to me when you fucked me!”

I wince, the truth of her words hitting me harder than I expected. It was no longer a game or a revenge mission; when I took her to the penthouse, it was as a man in love. Javier—Alejandro—didn’t exist—I was just…hers.

I watch her as she speaks, the hurt in her eyes cutting deeper than any words. I want to reach out, to explain, but the weight of my actions holds me back. “I know,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. “I wanted him to die.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“No.” I take a step toward her, but she sends me a warning look, her small hands balling into fists. “I did, but not like that. I didn’t want you to suffer.” I point in the general direction of my office. “I collected a file on your father, one that would have been his death for sure. I was supposed to send it weeks ago… I wanted to send it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because of you. Because none of my words to you were lies. Because you suddenly became more important than my vendetta, and because?—”

“Stop. It doesn’t matter. The only reason I’m standing here right now is because I know they would not kill me first. No, they share your sadism. They would kill the people I care for and let me rot in my guilt before ending my misery.” She looks down at the suitcase with a sigh before looking back up at me. “Whatever my father did, you got your revenge, and frankly, good for you for getting the thing you’ve wanted for years. How does it feel?”

“Like losing.”

“Ah.” She simply nods. “I’m sorry for you then—how anticlimactic.” She grabs her suitcase. “Where am I supposed to stay?”

“Ideally? In my room, in my bed, in my arms,” I say, my voice softening as I look at her, hoping to convey the depth of my feelings.

She starts to laugh, but it sounds pained, broken. “Oh no, Javier—Alejandro. I—What should I call you anyway? Who are you?” Her voice wavers, the anger giving way to confusion and hurt.

“You know who I am. My name is irrelevant, but if you need to know, Alejandro died on the steps of that church. I’m Javier now; I’ve been Javier for almost as long as I was Alejandro. But when it comes to you? I’d much rather you call me yours.”

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