“Eight names.” Miguel watched his son’s face as those cold dark eyes scanned the list. “Good families. Strong alliances. Women who understand our world.”
The temperature in the room dropped like God himself had walked in and found them all wanting.
“You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack.” Which Miguel had survived two years ago, though he hadn’t told his sons. Only Selena knew how close they’d come to losing him. How it had crystallized his fears about leaving Aivan alone in the world, frozen in his self-imposed isolation.
Aivan’s laugh held no humor. “I’m twenty-eight, not some virginprincipewho needs his father arranging playdates.”
“No, you’re worse.” The words escaped before Miguel could temper them. “You’re a man so afraid of feeling that you’d rather die alone than risk what happened to me happening to you.”
Silence. Even Selena’s breathing paused.
Then: “Don’t.”
One word, but it carried twenty-three years of weight.Don’t talk about her. Don’t compare us. Don’t pretend you understand.
Miguel understood too well. Understood the particular paralysis that came from losing someone who took all your softness with them when they left. He’d been that man for ten years after Paulette, until a twenty-three-year-old English teacher with gentle hands and steel backbone had walked into a parent conference and told him his younger son needed more attention at home.
He’d hired her to tutor Olivio. Fallen in love over discussions of Shakespeare and proper grammar. Learned that a heart could be rebuilt if you had the right architect.
“Choose one,” Miguel said quietly, “or find your racing sponsors elsewhere.”
Aivan went absolutely still. The kind of stillness that preceded violence in their bloodline, though his son had channeled that genetic gift into reaction times that made him untouchable on the track.
“Olivio would fund me.”
“Olivio does what I tell him regarding family matters. And I’ve already told him not to.” Miguel had covered every angle. Had to, with a son who thought ten moves ahead like a chess grandmaster. “Choose, Aivan. Choose a wife, or choose to see if your pride can pay for tires and jet fuel.”
His son’s eyes dropped to the list again. Miguel caught it: the way they snagged on one name, the furrow between dark brows that meant his formidable brain was calculating variables.
Sienah Posada.
It was the only name on the list without a pedigree stretching back generations, without Swiss bank accounts or international business connections. Just a nineteen-year-old girl who’d grown up in their house, quiet as church bells at midnight, pretty as spilled wine on white linen, and desperately in love with a man who’d never noticed her beyond casual politeness.
Selena had insisted on adding her name.“The girl has loved him for years,”she’d argued last night, her small hands fierce on Miguel’s shoulders.“What Aivan needs isn’t another cold arrangement but someone who already sees past his walls.”
Miguel had his doubts. Love without reciprocation was just delayed heartbreak. But Selena rarely asked for anything, and she’d never steered him wrong about matters of the heart.
“Do I get time to consider?” Aivan’s voice stayed flat, but Miguel noticed the way his thumb traced that one name. Once. Twice.
“One month. Then you bring me a name, or you find another way to fund your season.”
His son stood, every movement controlled. The same way he’d moved since five years old, when showing pain meant admitting you could be broken.
“Fine.”
He turned to leave, and Miguel couldn’t help himself: “Aivan.”
His son paused without turning.
“Your mother would have wanted—”
“We’ll never know what she wanted.” Still that flat, dead tone. “She’s not here to ask.”
The door closed with a quiet click that sounded like a gunshot in the silence.
Selena materialized at Miguel’s shoulder, her hand warm against his neck. “You did what you had to.”
