Chapter 46 DOUBT AND FEAR
POV: Selena
I am scrubbing the wall myself when Adrian finds me.
The building superintendent told me not to touch it. Said the police would handle it. Said insurance would send someone. He spoke slowly, like I might fall apart if he rushed me.
I ignored him.
The smell of solvent burns my nose as I press the cloth harder than necessary against the brick. The black paint smears instead of lifting, turning the word into a shadow that refuses to disappear.
I want it gone.
Not hidden. Not covered.
Gone.
“Selena,” Adrian says quietly from behind me.
I do not turn around.
“If I scrub hard enough,” I mutter, “maybe it will stop echoing in my head.”
He takes the cloth from my hand before I can argue. His fingers brush mine, warm and steady, and the sudden contrast makes my throat tighten.
“You do not have to prove anything,” he says.
I finally look at him. His eyes flick to the wall, then back to my face. Anger flashes there, sharp and contained.
“This is my fault,” he adds.
“No,” I say immediately. Too quickly. “It is not.”
But part of me wonders if that is true.
The police take photos. A report is filed. Security is doubled again. Everything becomes procedural, which is almost worse than panic. It turns something personal into a line item.
By the time Adrian leaves, promising to call later, the wall is still stained and my hands ache.
I sit on the floor after the door closes, back against the couch, knees pulled to my chest. The apartment feels smaller now. Watched, even though I know no one is inside.
I tell myself this is just intimidation.
I tell myself it will pass.
The next day, Rosa insists I come over.
She does not ask. She says it the way she always has when she knows I am spiraling. Come eat. I made soup.
Her kitchen smells like cumin and onions, familiar enough to make my shoulders drop an inch. She pours broth into bowls and watches me over the rim of her glasses as I sit at the small table where I did homework as a teenager.
“You look thin,” she says.
“I am fine.”
She hums, unconvinced, and sits across from me.
For a while, we eat in silence. The normalcy presses in on me. It makes everything else feel louder.
Finally, she sets her spoon down.
“Mija,” she says gently, “are you marrying him for love or strategy?”
The question lands cleanly. No judgment. No accusation.
I stare into my bowl.
“Both,” I say after a moment. “Is that wrong?”
Rosa considers this. She reaches across the table and taps my wrist, a habit from when I was small and needed grounding.
“Life is messy,” she says. “Love does not happen in a vacuum. But you need to know which part you would choose if the other disappeared.”
I swallow. My mouth feels dry.
“If there were no will,” I say slowly, “no enemies, no pressure… I would still want him.”
She nods. “And if there were no love?”
I hesitate.
“Then I would walk away,” I admit. “Even if it cost him everything.”
Rosa studies my face like she is searching for cracks.
“You are scared,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And you are strong.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Those two things are not opposites.”
She smiles softly. “Good. Because fear does not mean you are wrong. It means you are paying attention.”
When I leave her house, the sky is already darkening. My phone buzzes with updates I barely read. Lawyers. Security. Schedules.
Adrian texts me just before midnight.
I am here if you need me.
I stare at the screen for a long time before replying.
I need sleep.
He sends a heart. Simple. No pressure.
Sleep does not come.
I lie in bed listening to the city breathe through the window. Every sound feels amplified. My thoughts circle the same questions over and over.
Am I becoming what they say I am?
Am I strong enough to stand in a family that eats pressure for breakfast?
What happens if this breaks him?
What happens if it breaks me?
The night before the wedding arrives too quickly.
My apartment is quiet again, the wall outside repainted but not forgotten. I move through my routine slowly, like if I rush, something will snap.
I shower. I lay out the dress Bella insisted on sending. Simple. Elegant. Nothing flashy.
I sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hands, staring at Adrian’s name in my contacts. I want to hear his voice. I also want to protect him from my doubt.
The phone rings before I decide.
Unknown number.
My stomach tightens.
I answer anyway.
“Hello?”
Silence stretches for a beat too long.
Then a voice speaks.
“Do not marry him.”
My grip tightens.
“You will regret it,” the voice continues. “This is your last warning.”
Something about the cadence sends a chill through me. The slight hitch at the end of the sentence. The way my name is not said, but implied.
“Who is this?” I ask.
A breath. Sharp. Familiar.
“You do not recognize me?” the voice says.
My heart starts to race.
“No,” I lie.
The voice softens, almost sad.
“It is me,” she says. “Jessica Martinez.”
The missing intern.
My mouth goes dry.
“You are not supposed to be calling anyone,” I say. “They said you disappeared.”
“I did not disappear,” she replies. “I was removed.”
My pulse pounds in my ears.
“Why are you calling me?” I whisper.
“Because you are standing where I stood,” she says. “And I did not survive it the way you think.”
Before I can ask another question, the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, my reflection faint in the dark screen.
Outside, somewhere in the city, something shifts.
And I know this wedding is no longer just about love or strategy.
It is about what the De Luca name costs.
And whether I am willing to pay it.