59

By morning, the villa's silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of a vintage Rolls-Royce pulling up the driveway — the kind of sound that made even the house staff straighten their posture.

From the second the car door opened, everyone knew who it was.

Doña Beatriz De Torre did not arrive anywhere — she descended upon it. Her presence filled every inch of space she entered, her perfume arriving a second before her sharp tone. She wore her usual pearls, a silk blouse buttoned to the throat, and her signature weapon: a Spanish hand fan of carved sandalwood.

Lea, who had been in the kitchen with a mug of coffee, didn't even flinch. She had already predicted this visit. She'd called the night before, and when the De Torre matriarch said, "I'll handle my grandson," Lea knew a storm was on its way.

Rafael, however, wasn't so prepared.

He'd barely finished changing into a fresh polo when Alex appeared at the study door, clearing his throat. "Sir, Doña Beatriz is here."

Rafael froze. "Already?"

Alex nodded grimly. "She's walking up the steps."

Before Rafael could even form a reply, the heavy double doors swung open.

Beatriz stood in the doorway, her fan snapping open with a crack that could silence a boardroom. "Ah," she said, her voice low, sharp as a scalpel. "There's the disgrace of the De Torre name."

Rafael instinctively straightened, like a schoolboy caught skipping class. "Lola—"

Smack!

The fan met his shoulder before he could finish. The sound echoed through the study.

Lea winced from the hallway but didn't interfere.

Beatriz pointed the fan at him. "You think you're too old to be disciplined? I'll remind you I raised men twice your size who cried when I was done with them."

"Lola, please—"

Smack! This time across his forearm.

"I heard," Beatriz continued, her words precise, her accent crisp with fury, "that you beat your COO into the floor of your own home. That your children — your children — saw it. You've brought shame not only to this family but to yourself."

Rafael clenched his jaw. "He hurt Ellie. I wasn't going to just stand there—"

Snap! The fan opened again, cutting his defense short.

"And did hurting him make her better?" Beatriz shot back. "Did it fix anything? Or did you simply prove that the De Torres still handle conflict the way your grandfather did — with fists instead of brains?"

Rafael's lips tightened, his eyes flicking down.

Beatriz's tone softened only slightly. "You think I don't understand the rage of a parent? You think I don't know what it's like to watch someone wound your blood and feel helpless? But control, Rafael. Control is what separates you from the men who disgrace their names."

Lea stepped forward quietly, placing a cup of coffee on the table beside them. "Lola," she said gently, "he knows. He's just—"

Beatriz turned to her, her tone gentler, though still sharp enough to slice steel. "You. You're the only one in this house with sense left. Why did you let him go that far?"

Lea exhaled. "Because I couldn't stop him fast enough."

Beatriz's eyes softened briefly. "Ah. Love makes fools of us all."

Then she turned her gaze back to Rafael, snapping the fan shut with finality. "You are not a fool, Rafael. You are a De Torre. And De Torres do not brawl like drunkards in their foyers."

"I know," he murmured.

"You will apologize to that girl," Beatriz continued. "And you will talk to that son of yours before he starts thinking his father's temper is something to imitate."

Rafael nodded, subdued now. "Yes, Lola."

She narrowed her eyes. "And one more thing."

"Yes?"

Beatriz raised her fan — and with a quick, precise motion, smacked him on the back of the head.

"Next time you decide to lose control," she said coolly, "make sure you're not wearing my family name when you do it."

Rafael rubbed the back of his head, groaning softly. "That was unnecessary."

Beatriz sniffed. "That was restraint. You're lucky I left the rosary in the car."

Lea couldn't help it — she laughed. Softly at first, then louder. Even Alex, still standing by the door, had to turn slightly to hide a grin.

Beatriz gave them both a pointed look. "Don't laugh, hija. This is how you train a De Torre. Firm hand, harder fan."

Lea bit back another chuckle. "I'll keep that in mind, Lola."

Beatriz turned back to Rafael one last time. "You will fix this mess, boy. Quietly, cleanly, and with dignity. I didn't raise you to make headlines for losing your temper."

Rafael nodded, his voice low. "Yes, Lola."

"Good," she said briskly. "Now, where's my great-grandson? The only man in this family who still listens to me."

"Upstairs," Lea said, smiling faintly. "I'll wake him."

As Lea left the room, Beatriz gave Rafael a long, assessing stare — the kind only a matriarch could deliver, the kind that stripped a man back down to the little boy she once scolded for sneaking biscuits.

"You're lucky she loves you," she said finally. "If you'd married anyone else, they'd have buried you by now."

Rafael chuckled weakly. "You're not wrong."

"Of course not," Beatriz said, flicking her fan open again. "Now go ice that ego, Rafael. It's more bruised than your hand."

And with that, she turned on her heel and left the study — her fan fluttering like a small storm in her wake, her pearls clinking, her power undeniable.

By the time Lea returned with Liam — bright-eyed, already dressed for breakfast — Beatriz was sitting at the table, coffee cup in hand, instructing the kitchen staff on how to properly toast pan de sal.

Rafael leaned against the doorway, hand bandaged, head still smarting from the fan.

Liam noticed the red mark on his father's temple and grinned. "Papa are you okay? Did you get hit? What's that?"

Rafael sighed. "Yes, anak. By Lola."

Liam nodded sagely. "Good. You deserved it."

Beatriz didn't even look up. "He certainly did."

Lea just smiled into her coffee, grateful that even in chaos — especially in chaos — family was still the one force that could set everything right.