The wedding happened three days later.
No invitations.
No flowers chosen with care.
No expectations.
Ayslan barely had time to understand that her life was being torn from her hands before she found herself sitting in the back seat of a dark car, watching the city slide past the window like a distant set piece.
Daniela believed her granddaughter had landed a better job. She didn't suspect anything beyond that. Alvaro had been clear: no one needed to know the truth.
"It's better this way," he'd told her. "The fewer questions, the better."
The ceremony was held in a discreet registry office, reserved for a select few. The place was too quiet, too cold, as if even the walls knew this wasn't a normal wedding.
Ayslan wore a simple, light-colored dress borrowed from Camila. There was no veil. No bouquet. Just her, with a heavy heart and her hands clasped in front of her body.
Camila stood beside her, restless, eyes watchful, as though she wanted to shield her from something invisible.
"There's still time..." she whispered.
Ayslan just shook her head.
"No, there isn't."
Alvaro walked in a few minutes later.
Dark suit, flawless posture, distant gaze. There was no nervousness in his expression — only control. To him, this was a necessary act. An arrangement. Nothing more.
He stopped beside Ayslan without touching her.
Not even a glance.
The judge began to speak, reciting words that, in another context, would have symbolized union, choice, love. To Ayslan, they sounded hollow. Almost cruel.
"Do you accept..."
She felt her throat tighten.
For one brief instant, she thought of Daniela. She thought of running. She thought of screaming.
But she answered:
"I do."
Alvaro responded right after, without hesitation.
"I do."
The rings were exchanged quickly. The cold metal on her finger felt like a silent reminder of what she'd just lost.
"You are now legally married."
There was no kiss.
There was no smile.
Just a heavy silence that spread through the room.
Camila hugged Ayslan tight before she could leave.
"Call me. Anything happens, you call me," she pleaded, her voice thick.
"I will," Ayslan promised, even though she didn't know if she could keep it.
Alvaro was already heading for the exit when he noticed she was still standing there. He turned back, impatient.
"Let's go."
Ayslan followed him.
The drive to the mansion was silent. The car felt too large. Ayslan stared out the window, trying to memorize the feeling of just being herself.
When they arrived, the gate opened slowly, revealing an elegant property — more cold than warm — surrounded by high walls and perfectly manicured gardens. Too beautiful to look alive.
Ayslan felt a chill.
It didn't look like a home.
It looked like a territory.
Inside the house, everything was large, ordered, impersonal. Staff passed by discreetly, avoiding eye contact, as if they knew exactly who she was... and what she wasn't.
Alvaro handed his jacket to one of the men and turned to her.
"Your room is on the second floor," he said, blunt. "Separate from mine."
Ayslan blinked, surprised.
"Separate?"
"Yes." No emotion. "This isn't a real marriage. Don't confuse things."
She nodded.
She hadn't.
"There are some rules," Alvaro continued. "You don't leave alone without telling someone. You don't speak to the press. You don't ask questions about my business. And..."
He paused briefly.
"You don't touch anything that was my wife's."
Ayslan's heart clenched.
"Bruna..." she murmured, without thinking.
Alvaro's gaze turned dark.
"Exactly."
He gestured for her to follow him to the staircase.
"Tomorrow, your grandmother will be transferred to a private hospital," he said, as though discussing a routine appointment. "Everything's already arranged."
Ayslan felt her eyes fill with tears.
"Thank you..." she said, and meant it.
Alvaro stopped midway up the stairs and looked at her for a moment. There was something barely perceptible in his gaze — not kindness, not regret — but something close to conflict.
"Don't thank me," he replied. "This isn't generosity. It's an arrangement."
He continued climbing, leaving her there, alone, surrounded by walls that didn't know her.
Later, in her room, Ayslan sat on the edge of a bed far too large for someone so small in that world. She slipped off the ring and set it on the nightstand, watching the cold gleam of the metal.
She was married.
But she didn't have a husband.
She had a last name.
A house that wasn't hers.
And a life that no longer belonged to her.
On the other side of the mansion, Alvaro entered his study and opened a locked drawer. Inside was an old photograph.
Bruna smiled, pregnant, one hand resting on her belly.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
"It'll work..." he muttered, more to himself than to the memory that refused to leave.
But in that silence, not even he believed it.
A soft knock on the door made Ayslan turn with a start.
"Come in..." she said quietly.
A housekeeper entered with careful steps.
"Good evening, Mrs. Mendes," she said formally. "Mr. Mendes asked me to let you know that dinner is served, if you'd like to come down."
Ayslan hesitated.
"Is he... will he be having dinner too?"
"No," the woman replied. "He's in his study."
Ayslan nodded.
"Thank you."
When she was alone again, she changed out of the simple dress into plain pajamas. Walking downstairs, she felt like a stranger in her own home — if it could even be called that.
The table was set for two, but only one place looked actually used. The other was almost symbolic.
Ayslan sat down and tried to eat, but the food had no taste. Every bite felt too heavy. The silence was so absolute it hurt.
After a few minutes, she gave up.
"You can clear this," she told the housekeeper politely.
"Would you like anything else?"
"No... thank you."
She went back to her room, but sleep wouldn't come. She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to her own heart beat too hard.
At some point deep in the night, she got up, unable to stay still. She opened the bedroom door and walked down the hallway, guided more by curiosity than courage.
A door at the end of the corridor was ajar.
Light spilled through it.
Ayslan approached in silence and peered inside.
Alvaro sat behind a large desk, surrounded by papers and screens. The suit jacket had been tossed over a chair, his dark shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked tired... but alert. Always alert.
On the desk, something caught her eye.
A photograph.
Ayslan's heart raced. Even from a distance, she recognized the woman's face in the image.
Bruna.
The resemblance was undeniable.
The same face shape. The same skin tone. Even the smile had something dangerously similar. But looking closer, Ayslan noticed the differences no one else seemed to see.
Bruna had a confident gaze, almost arrogant.
Ayslan carried exhaustion, gentleness... and fear.
She took a step back, but the faint creak of the floorboard gave her away.
Alvaro's eyes snapped up immediately.
"Don't you know how to knock?" he asked, cold.
Ayslan felt her face burn.
"Sorry... I couldn't sleep."
He studied her for a few seconds, appraising.
"Do you need something?"
"No," she answered quickly. "I just... got lost in the house."
Alvaro closed the drawer where he'd kept the photograph and stood.
"Avoid wandering around here at night," he said. "Some places aren't for you."
The words landed harder than maybe he'd intended. Ayslan nodded.
"Understood."
When she turned to leave, his voice reached her again.
"Ayslan."
She stopped.
"You held up your end today," he said, without emotion. "Your grandmother is being well cared for."
Her chest tightened.
"That's all I care about."
Alvaro held her gaze for a moment. There was something there — not kindness, not regret — but a silent conflict.
"Good night," he said at last.
"Good night."
Ayslan went back to her room with her heart racing. She locked the door and leaned against it, the way she had before, but now the weight was heavier.
On the other side of the house, Alvaro sat back down. He opened the drawer again and took out Bruna's photograph.
"It's not you..." he murmured, staring at the image. "It shouldn't be."
But no matter how hard he tried to deny it, the face rising in his mind was no longer just the dead woman's.
It was Ayslan's.
On that first night under the same roof, neither of them slept.
And both of them knew, even without admitting it, that this cold marriage had just set something far more dangerous in motion than either had foreseen.
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