Chapter 4: The Morning After

The dawn was soft, a pale grey light filtering through the capiz shells, smelling of rain-washed jasmine and spent beeswax.

Mia lay in the crook of Mateo’s arm. Her pillowy shoulder was pressed against his bronze chest, and for the first time in her life, she felt truly awake. The night had not been the “struggle” she feared; it had been an awakening. As she listened to Mateo’s steady, deep breathing, she felt a profound sense of debt. She knew that without Alana’s frankness—without the “dance” she had been taught in the steam—she would be lying here broken and cold, and Mateo would be a stranger.

A soft, rhythmic click sounded at the door.

Alana entered, moving like a shadow. She carried a brass basin of warm water and fresh linens, her head bowed. She moved with a practiced, defensive caution, her lithe, ninety-pound frame tense. In her mind, she had already begun to calculate the cost of her helpfulness. She expected to find a smug, distant Mistress and a satisfied Master who no longer had a use for a servant’s heart.

She stopped at the foot of the bed. Her eyes flickered up, taking in the scene—the tangled sheets, the way Mateo held Mia with a genuine, protective weight.

Mia’s almond eyes opened. She didn’t pull away from Mateo’s embrace. Instead, she looked directly at Alana. There was no triumph in her gaze, no “rich girl” coldness. Instead, her eyes shimmered with a raw, honest warmth.

Mia leaned forward slightly, making sure Alana could see her lips. She didn’t speak aloud—she didn’t want to wake the man who held them both—but she clearly mouthed the words:

“Thank you, my friend. Thank you.”

Alana froze. The basin in her hands trembled, the water rippling. She looked at Mia and saw not a rival, but an ally. The “Lian iron” she had glimpsed before wasn’t a weapon aimed at her; it was a shield being lowered in a gesture of absolute trust.

In that heartbeat, Alana’s defensive walls crumbled. She realized that by helping Mia find her voice, she hadn’t made herself obsolete—she had made herself essential. She gave a single, slow nod, her dark eyes softening as she realized she was safe. More than safe. She was wanted.

“You are early, Alana,” Mia whispered. Her voice was steady, robust.

Alana bowed her head, her dark hair shielding her expression. “The Don expects the Master and the Mistress at the table by eight, Señora. I am here to help you wash.”

Mateo stirred, his hand instinctively tightening around Mia’s waist before he opened his eyes. He looked at Alana, then at Mia. The air in the room became heavy, a different kind of tension than the night before.

“Go, Alana,” Mateo said, his voice husky with sleep. “Wait in the dressing room. I will call for you when my wife is ready.”

Alana’s fingers tightened on the edge of the brass basin. “As you wish, Master.”

As Alana retreated, the silence she left behind was sharp. Mia watched her go, a cold realization settling into her core. She saw the way Alana’s shoulders had tensed. She saw the “history” in the way Alana moved through Mateo’s private space—the familiarity born of eighteen months, the muscle memory of serving him in this most intimate of rooms.

Mia turned back to Mateo, her hand sliding up his chest to rest over his heart. “She cares for you,” Mia murmured, testing the waters.

Mateo looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. “She is a servant of this house, Mia. Nothing more.”

Mia didn’t believe the lie, but she accepted the alliance forming in her mind. The battle lines were drawn. She would be the perfect wife, the moral mother, and the self-sufficient partner—but she would not abandon her little lady-in-waiting to be discarded when convenient.

An hour later, as the household began to stir to life with the sounds of servants preparing breakfast and fieldworkers heading to the cane, Alana helped Mia dress for the first family breakfast. The atmosphere in the dressing room was transformed. There was no “Mistress and Servant” hierarchy.