Delfina worked by the blue glow of dawn, emptying the bright red capsules over the trash bin in the private wing's auxiliary kitchenette.
Powder dusted her knuckles, chemical and bitter. In their place, she pressed rolled pellets of dried linden blossom, pulverized wild oats, and honey into gelatin shells she had bought with her own pocket change from a corner apothecary down near the docks. Identical size. Identical weight. Zero poison.
Beside her, Churro sat on a velvet footstool, chewing the corner of an expensive linen napkin. His wire-haired tail tapped the oak floorboards in steady strokes.
"Don't look at me like that," Delfina whispered, brushing herb dust into the sink. "If I tell him outright, he fires the staff, calls in the police, and whoever placed the camera panics and finishes the job before nightfall. We buy time."
Churro sneezed, satisfied with her logic.
By eight, she carried a heavy wooden tray into Bastian's bedroom. No bitter espressos or dry, cold protein shakes. She set down a bowl of warm coastal barley porridge simmered in goat's milk, topped with toasted sunflower seeds and sliced yellow plums from the orchard fringe, flanked by a mug of steeped lemon-verbena.
Bastian sat against the headboard, his laptop resting on his knees. The dark rings under his eyes were lighter today, bruised purple fading to pale gray, though his posture remained rigid as rebar. He looked at the bowl, then up at her apron.
"What is this concoction?" his voice rasped, rough from sleep.
"Breakfast, sir. Your chef makes French toast that tastes like burnt syrup. This will keep your stomach quiet until noon."
He scowled, but he didn't shove it away. He picked up the spoon, tasted a bite, and stopped. The tense line between his eyebrows softened. He ate another mouthful. Then another, slower this time, savoring the butter and fruit.
"And the amber bottle?" he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the marble side table.
"Your dose is right here, sir," Delfina said smoothly, placing two of her handmade herb capsules beside the mug. "Taken with warm tea, as your physician should have ordered."
He swallowed them down with the infusion without a second glance. When he handed the empty mug back to her, his knuckles brushed her palm. The skin of his hand was warm now, devoid of the icy tremors that had racked him forty-eight hours ago.
"You smile every time I finish the food," he noted quietly, his gray gaze fixed on her face.
"Because an empty dish means you won't faint on my clean carpets, Mr. Ferrero."
"Is that all I am to you? A hazard to your rugs?"
A tiny curve touched his mouth—the first real shadow of humor she had ever seen on him. It transformed his severe, sharp-planed face into something astonishingly human. Delfina felt a strange flutter in her ribs and quickly dropped her eyes to the tray.
"I am deeply fond of clean rugs, sir."
"Liar," he murmured, but there was no bite in it. Only an easy, quiet rhythm that belonged in a sunny cottage rather than an echo-filled glass fortress.
For three days, the rhythm held. Bastian began waking without gasping for air. He abandoned his double espressos for her lemongrass infusions. He even let Churro sleep at the foot of his leather sofa while he drafted acquisition contracts, occasionally tossing the scruffy dog scraps of roasted sea bass beneath the desk when he thought Delfina wasn't watching.
Then the heavy bronze double doors of the private wing slammed open on Thursday afternoon.
The sharp clack of designer stilettos hit the imported marble like gunfire.
"Bastian? Darling, where are you hiding? The board is tired of your pathetic radio silence!"
Delfina stepped into the master hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. Churro immediately backed behind her ankles, a low growl rumbling in his scruffy chest.
The woman marching down the corridor was polished like a cut diamond. Draped in an emerald silk trench coat and towering on crimson-soled heels, Catalina Vargas carried herself with the toxic entitlement of old Sanmoran money. Her glossy black hair fell over sculpted cheekbones, her dark eyes scanning the pristine hallway until they locked onto Delfina.
Catalina’s manicured nose wrinkled in disgust.
"What is this?" Catalina demanded, stopping two paces away and glaring at Delfina’s linen apron. "Did Vance hire off the gutter docks again? Where is Bastian?"
"Mr. Ferrero is resting," Delfina said evenly, squaring her shoulders to block the carved oak door to the master suite. "He gave strict instructions that he is not taking visitors."
"Visitors?" Catalina barked a laugh that was pure venom. "I am his ex-wife, you ridiculous little peasant. I represent the Vargas bloc on the Ferrero board of directors. I am here to verify his incapacitation so we can invoke the emergency succession clause. Now step aside before I have you thrown over the cliff fence."
"I have my orders from Mr. Ferrero himself, ma'am. You cannot enter."
Catalina's face warped with sudden, ugly fury. She took a swift step forward, her diamond ring catching the chandelier light as she raised her right hand to strike Delfina across the mouth.
"Know your place, you wretched little—"
The slap never landed.
A hand shot past Delfina’s shoulder, clamping down on Catalina’s wrist like an iron vise.
Catalina let out a sharp gasp of pain. Her arm was twisted backward, halted mid-air inches from Delfina’s cheek. Delfina turned her head and found Bastian standing behind her. He wasn't in his sickbed attire; he wore a crisp charcoal shirt, rolled at the sleeves, his posture imposing and completely steady.
His grip on his ex-wife’s wrist did not loosen.
"B-Bastian?" Catalina sputtered, her voice faltering as she struggled against his iron grip. "You're... you're standing?"
"You raise a hand under my roof again, Catalina, and I will snap it at the joint," Bastian said. His tone was deathly flat, chilling the corridor to absolute zero.
"She's a servant!" Catalina hissed, her eyes darting between Bastian's vibrant color and the firm strength pinning her wrist. "She barred me from seeing you! You're supposed to be confined to bed, trembling! The reports—"
"The reports your bought-and-paid-for doctor fed to my board?" Bastian twisted her arm just enough to force her down onto one knee, completely breaking her poise. "Listen to me very carefully. Delfina is the only woman in this entire house whose loyalty is beyond reproach. You touch her, you insult her, or you look at her with contempt again, and I will strip every Vargas asset currently tied to my shipping lines before the market closes at five."
He released her wrist with a flick of pure disgust, as if shaking off refuse.
Catalina stumbled back, clutching her bruised arm. The red welt where his grip had clamped stood out vividly against her pale skin. She looked up at him with sheer malice, the facade of glamorous arrogance cracking to reveal pure rot.
"You think you've won, Bastian?" she spat, reaching inside her emerald coat with trembling fingers. "You think a little coastal whore cooking broth is going to save your dynasty?"
She whipped out a folded, notarized legal document and hurled it against his chest. The heavy parchment fluttered down, landing on the floor between Bastian and Delfina.
"The board signed off this morning while you were playing house," Catalina snarled, backing toward the double doors with burning eyes. "A binding emergency medical proxy. The very second your heart stutters again—the second you collapse on that floor—guardianship transfers entirely to me. I take the company. I take this house. And I will throw your precious little maid into Sanmora Central Prison for gross medical negligence before your body even cools."
She turned on her heel and strode away, the violent clatter of her heels fading into the cavernous depths of the mansion.
Delfina looked down at the parchment on the marble floor.
Printed across the header in cold, dark ink were the words:
*PETITION FOR TOTAL MEDICAL CONSERVATORSHIP: BASTIAN FERRERO.*
And stamped directly below was a court seal granting Catalina complete authority the exact moment Bastian’s vital monitors recorded another arrhythmic cardiac failure.