Chapter 6: Don Rodrigo’s Shadow

The Watching

Don Rodrigo was not a fool.

He had built an empire on sugar and exploitation, on knowing when men lied and when they told dangerous truths. He read ledgers the way other men read novels—seeing the story beneath the numbers, the patterns that revealed theft, incompetence, or rebellion.

And for the past month, he had been watching his household with the same sharp attention he gave to account books that didn’t quite balance.

Something was wrong.

Not wrong in the way of scandal or chaos. Wrong in the way of a chessboard where pieces had moved when he wasn’t looking, and suddenly his position was weaker than it should be.

It had started small.

The way Mia touched Alana’s arm at breakfast—brief, casual, but deliberate. Public.

The way Mateo’s eyes followed both women now, confused and slightly wary, like a man who’d lost control of something he thought he owned.

The way Alana no longer moved through the house like a ghost trying not to be seen, but with her head up, her spine straight, meeting the eyes of other servants who now deferred to her.

The way Mia consulted Alana about household decisions, spoke to her as an equal rather than a subordinate.

The way the two women looked at each other when they thought no one was watching—something passing between them that had nothing to do with mistress and servant, and everything to do with conspiracy.

Don Rodrigo did not like conspiracies he hadn’t authorized.

And he especially did not like seeing an Indio girl forget her place.

He had tolerated Alana for three years because she was useful. The girl had a mind for numbers that even he grudgingly respected. She kept the books with meticulous accuracy, never stealing, never making errors that cost him money.

And she kept Mateo’s attention focused on the estate rather than chasing skirts in town, which was worth something.

But he had also made certain she understood her position.

She was Indio. Bottom of the casta. Barely above the field workers.

The cottage had been a moment of weakness on Mateo’s part—sentiment dressed up as practicality. Don Rodrigo had allowed it because it kept her contained, kept her grateful, kept her aware that everything she had could be taken away.

But now?

Now she was living in the Grand House. Sleeping in the mistress’s wing. Standing behind Mia at table like she had some kind of status.

“Lady-in-waiting,” Mia had called her.

As if a Chinese mestiza could elevate an Indio through sheer declaration.

As if the casta system was something that could be negotiated rather than enforced.

Don Rodrigo had let it stand at first because making a scene during the wedding period would have been unseemly. The Lian family was watching. The Church was watching. Social equals were watching to see if the Miraflores household could maintain proper order.

But a month had passed.

The social niceties were observed.

And it was time to remind everyone—especially the Indio girl—exactly how the world worked.

The Confrontation

Alana was in the cottage, alone, working through the quarterly accounts when Don Rodrigo entered without knocking.

She looked up from the ledger, startled. He never came to the cottage. That was Mateo’s space, her space, deliberately separate from the main house.

“Don Rodrigo,” she said, rising quickly, bowing her head. Old habits of deference snapping into place like armor. “I wasn’t expecting—is something wrong with the accounts?”

“Sit down,” he said.

His voice was flat. Cold. The tone he used with workers who’d been caught stealing.

Alana sat, pulse quickening.

He closed the door behind him. Stood with his back to it, blocking the exit.

“You’ve forgotten yourself,” he said without preamble.

“I don’t understand—”

“Don’t play stupid, girl. It doesn’t suit you.” He moved closer, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been here three years. In all that time, you’ve known your place. Kept your head down. Served your function. I respected that.”

He stopped at the edge of the desk, looking down at her.

“But in the past month, you’ve developed ambitions. Pretensions. The Chinese girl calls you her ‘lady-in-waiting’ and suddenly you forget you’re Indio.”