Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 58: You Wouldn’t

The following morning unfolded gently over the De La Vega estate, California sun was deceptive. It looked warm, spilling like liquid gold over the manicured hedges of the De La Vega estate, but a sharp, cool breeze reminded Eloise that she was still very much inside a gilded cage.

Eloise walked slowly, hands tucked into the pockets of a borrowed cashmere cardigan that still carried the faint scent of Luciano’s cologne—sweet citrus, smoke, something colder. For the first time since her arrival, she was taking a proper tour of the property, and the scale of it still stole her breath: acres of manicured lawns rolling toward distant hills, a reflecting pool that mirrored the sky like black glass, stone fountains carved with twisting vines and winged figures that looked half-human, half-myth. Everything was beautiful in a way that felt deliberate, almost punishing.

Despite the chill, her skin felt flushed. Her mind was a traitorous thing, constantly looping back to the previous afternoon—to Luciano’s hand on her throat—not a choke, but a claim—and the searing heat of that kiss. She could still feel the car door at her back, the heat of his body pinning her, the low growl in his throat when she stopped pushing and started pulling. It had been brutal, possessive, and terrifyingly intimate.

It had been a punishment, he said. A lesson in obedience. So why the hell did the memory of it make her skin burn with something that felt dangerously like electricity?

She pressed her fingers lightly to her lips, as if the memory might still be lingering there. It was foolish. She knew that. And yet, the echo of it refused to fade. It was a memory that made her blood hum with a dangerous, confused frequency.

But it was this morning’s conversation that truly had her head spinning.

Luciano had sat across from her at the breakfast table, impeccably dressed in charcoal wool and platinum cufflinks, sipping his sweet coffee as if the world hadn’t tilted the day before. He was leaving for the day—business that required his "particular" brand of attention. He’d spoken casually, like he was discussing the weather.

"I’m taking you somewhere next Saturday. A place that matters. The designer will be here this afternoon with options—gowns, day dresses, jewelry. Try on what she brings."

Eloise had stared at him over her untouched croissant. "Where?"

He’d smiled—that slow, dangerous curve that never reached his eyes. "You’ll see."

Ian, his ever-present shadow of an assistant, would be on call if she needed anything.

And then, there were the shadows.

​"Marcos and Leo are your assigned detail," Luciano had said, clipping on his watch with clinical precision. "If you step a foot outside this house, they are with you. No arguments."

She’d argued. "I don’t need guards. I’m not a prisoner."

Luciano had paused at the door, turning just enough for the light to catch the icy blue-gray of his eyes. "It’s for your own good, Paloma. The world will soon know you’re mine. That will make you a target."

He’d left before she could reply.

After breakfast, Marcos and Leo had appeared—both tall, both built like brick walls, both looking slightly sheepish.

She had recognized them instantly.

They were the ones who had kidnapped her.

Leo—the bald, bulky one—who looked like he could crush a bowling ball with one hand had actually had the grace to look embarrassed, scratched the back of his neck, smiling awkwardly. "Miss Winters... or, uh, future Mrs. De La Vega. We’re your detail now."

Marcos’s lips had twitched. "Boss’s orders."

Eloise had stared at them.

"You two threw me in a trunk."

Leo winced. "Technically, it was a very nice SUV." He then looked at the floor like a scolded schoolboy.

Marcos coughed. "We’ve been... reassigned."

​Now, wandering into a secluded corner of the grounds, Eloise barely noticed when the path beneath her feet shifted from gravel to stone. It was only when the air changed—cooler, perfumed—that she realized she had stepped into a masterpiece. This wasn’t just a garden; it was a sanctuary. Rows of pristine white lilies stood like silent sentinels, flanked by the heavy, romantic blooms of white hydrangeas. Red roses flanked them, bold and unapologetic, their color startling against the green. The contrast was striking—life and death intertwined, tenderness and violence coexisting without apology.

And standing among them was Andrés De La Vega.

​He stood near the central fountain, dressed in sleek charcoal sportswear, his hair damp from a workout, sipping something from a stainless-steel coffee bottle. He looked lost in thought, he stared at the water as if it owed him answers.

Eloise hesitated, then walked toward him. She still couldn’t quite reconcile this man—tall, lethal, effortlessly handsome—with Jayla’s one-night stand from two years ago.

​"Good morning," she said softly.

​Andrés turned, his expression blank for a heartbeat before a small, weary smile touched his face. "Morning. How was the movie? I assume Luciano’s idea of a ’date’ was as theatrical as a Greek tragedy."

​Eloise sighed, leaning against a stone pillar. "You don’t want to know. You really don’t."

​Andrés chuckled, low and warm. "I told you he wasn’t built for cinema. Did he complain about the pacing? Or the lack of realism?"

​"He didn’t need to," she laughed despite herself—a small, rueful sound. "The ’movie’ was real life. It was me finding out Eric was a fraud. Jayla met her long-lost ’Jade’—and and then she proceeded to turn a Ferrari into scrap metal."

​Andrés stiffened. The coffee bottle paused halfway to his mouth. His eyes darkened with a sudden, sharp clarity.

Ah.

"I understand now," he said slowly, "why my brother suddenly decided he was in the mood for cinema. He wanted a front-row seat to the wreckage."

​"Was he always like that?" Eloise asked, looking at a lily. "So... detached? So comfortable with destruction?"

​Andrés took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze turning distant. "No, he was actually the nicest person I knew. He was the one who looked out for everyone. But life... life has a way of taking the ’nice’ out of a man. It beats it out of you until there’s nothing left but the steel underneath."

​Eloise couldn’t imagine a "nice" Luciano. She couldn’t reconcile the man who held her throat yesterday with a man who cared.

"I find that hard to believe."

Andrés shrugged. "Believe what you want. Grief changes people. Some of us get colder. Some of us get sharper."

She nodded, letting the silence stretch. Then, quietly she shifted the subject, her voice softening. "How was Jayla after the incident? I’ve been worried."

​Andrés paused. A shadow of something—frustration, perhaps, or a lingering heat—crossed his face. "She was fine. Or at least, she pretended to be. She left me at the bar we went to afterward. He huffed a breath. "Apparently, she didn’t take me there because she wanted to ’rekindle’ anything. She just wanted to use me for the atmosphere. Can you believe that?"

​Eloise nodded slowly. "I can. Jayla doesn’t play by anyone’s rules but her own." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If you are planning on chasing her, please don’t hurt her. She looks like she’s made of iron, but she’s not made of steel. She bleeds just like anyone else."

​Andrés stared at her, his expression unreadable. He didn’t offer a promise. He didn’t offer a lie. He just looked away, back at the flowers.

Eloise looked around the garden, taking in the perfect symmetry of the beds, the way the roses seemed to lean toward the path as if listening. She laughed softly. "It’s strange. I remember him saying once that flowers are for funerals. Yet, he keeps this garden. And the ones lining both sides of the driveway... they’re beautiful, but it seems so out of character for him."

​Andrés’s voice dropped, becoming heavy with a gravity that made the air feel thicker. "Those are our mothers’ favorites. The lilies for grace, the hydrangeas for understanding, they were the only things that made them smile in that house. I planted the red roses for passion." He looked toward the driveway, where the flowers stood in perfect, vibrant rows. "Luciano keeps them there so that every time we drive through those gates, we feel them welcoming us home. It’s the only ’welcome’ he’s ever truly valued."

​The revelation hit Eloise like a physical blow. She swallowed. Luciano had told her some things about his mothers. Not this. Never this. The cold, calculated Luciano De La Vega was surrounding himself with the ghosts of the only women he had ever loved. It was a detail so intimate, so heartbreakingly human, that she felt like an intruder.

She swallowed. "I didn’t know."

Andrés looked away, jaw working. "You wouldn’t."

​A beat of silence. Then she asked the question that had been simmering since she’d felt the subtle chill from him.

​"Do you hate me, Andrés?" she asked quietly. "Have I wronged you in some way? I feel like I’m walking on glass whenever you’re in the room."

​Andrés turned his full attention to her. The warmth from before was gone, replaced by a cold, protective fire. "Hate is a strong word, Eloise. But I don’t like how you insulted my brother."

​Eloise opened her mouth to defend herself, but he held up a hand.

​"You said things you don’t understand. You throw stones at a man who is already standing in a pile of glass. Let me ask you—have you apologized for the words you spat at him during breakfast? About his mother?"

​Eloise flinched. The memory of her own cruelty at the breakfast table days ago flooded back—her lashing out at him.

​"He carries enough weight, Eloise," Andrés hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "He’s spent his life feeling guilty for the death of our mothers. He thinks his birth was the beginning of the end for them. And you just had to reach in and twist the knife, didn’t you?"

​He stopped abruptly, realizing he had said too much. He turned away, his jaw working as he tried to regain his composure.

​Eloise stood in the center of the garden, surrounded by the flowers of dead women, and felt a crushing weight of shame. She remembered the breakfast—the anger, the feeling of being trapped, and the cruel words she’d used to hurt Luciano because he was hurting her. She hadn’t known about the guilt. She hadn’t known she was mocking a tragedy.

​"I... I didn’t know," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I’m sorry. I truly am. I spoke out of anger, but there’s no excuse for that. I’ll make it right. I’ll apologize."

​Andrés studied her face for a long moment. Seeing the genuine horror in her eyes, the tension in his shoulders finally broke.

​​"It’s fine," he said quietly, reaching out to pat her back with a surprisingly gentle hand. "You didn’t know. Just... remember that everyone in this house is bleeding, Eloise. Even the ones who look like they’re made of stone."

Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps on the gravel path broke the moment. Mary, the maid with the darting eyes and silent footsteps, appeared at the edge of the garden.

​"Miss," Mary said, her voice neutral. "The designer is here.

Eloise wiped her eyes quickly, nodding to Mary and then to Andrés. "Thank you, Andrés."

"For what?"

"For telling me."

She turned and followed Mary back toward the house, the scent of lilies clinging to her clothes.

Behind her, Andrés stayed by the fountain, staring at the water. The coffee bottle dangled forgotten from his fingers.