Narrator’s Point of View

Manolo’s mansion pulsed with a strange kind of life that morning. Sunlight poured through the glass arches, spilling over white roses and gold-rimmed plates. The air smelled of lilies and tension—the kind that clung to silk curtains and whispered through marble halls.

For the first time in months, the house that once echoed with gunfire and orders now buzzed with laughter, fabric swatches, and the hum of wedding plans.

Charlie stood in the middle of it all, a ...