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Two hours later, the car passed through a massive iron gate that opened automatically, winding up a private cliffside road surrounded by towering pine trees. At the summit stood a monolith of modern architecture—a sprawling estate of glass, steel, and dark stone overlooking the churning, black waters of Puget Sound.
The car stopped under a covered portico. The driver, a tall, silent man in a dark suit, immediately opened Matthew’s door with an umbrella. Matthew stepped out, not waiting for Elena.
“Bring her inside,” Matthew commanded over his shoulder as he walked toward the towering double doors of the mansion.
Elena hesitated, but the driver offered her a polite, albeit expressionless, nod. “Miss Vargas. Please.”
Stepping out of the car, Elena’s bare feet hit the cold stone. She walked into the house, her wet dress dripping onto the polished marble floors of a foyer that looked more like a contemporary art museum than a home. High ceilings, minimalist furniture, and a vast glass wall that showcased the violent storm raging over the ocean outside.
Matthew was already at a wet bar, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. He downed it in one swallow, then poured another.
“Mrs. Gable,” Matthew called out.
An elegant, elderly woman in a neat grey dress appeared from a side corridor. She looked at Elena’s disheveled state, her eyes softening with immediate maternal concern, though she kept her composure. “Yes, Mr. Carranza?”
“Take Miss Vargas upstairs. Give her the east wing guest suite. Call Dr. Evans to look at her face. And burn that dress.” Matthew finally looked at Elena, his expression unreadable. “Tomorrow, we talk.”
“Wait,” Elena said, taking a step forward, the wool blanket dragging behind her. “Why are you helping me? Who are you?”
Matthew paused, holding the crystal glass halfway to his lips. The lighting cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look devastatingly handsome and utterly terrifying.
“My name is Matthew Carranza,” he said softly. “And your stepmother’s business partner, Oscar Becerra, owes me fifty million dollars. More importantly, he killed my brother.”
Elena’s breath caught in her throat.
“You are not a victim here, Elena,” Matthew added, his voice dropping an octave, sending a shiver down her spine. “You are an asset. Now go get cleaned up.”
The Blueprint of Revenge
The guest room was larger than the entire apartment Elena had shared with Patricia. It featured a king-sized bed with silk sheets, a fireplace that was already crackling with warmth, and an attached bathroom with a deep soaking tub.
After a hot bath that washed away the mud but couldn’t erase the ache in her bones, a quiet doctor arrived, treated the bruise on her cheek with a soothing salve, and left without asking a single question. On the bed, Mrs. Gable had left a simple, elegant set of silk pajamas and a heavy velvet robe.
Elena couldn’t sleep. She sat by the window, watching the rain beat against the glass, her mind racing. She was safe from Patricia, safe from Becerra, but she had stepped into the den of a tiger. Everyone in Washington state knew the name Carranza. They were old money, shipping tycoons, and heavily rumored to control the underground logistics of the entire Pacific Northwest. Matthew Carranza was the ruthless new patriarch of that family.
The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a crisp, gray dawn. Mrs. Gable brought Elena a tray of breakfast and a garment bag containing a beautifully tailored, dark green wool dress that fit her perfectly.
“Mr. Carranza is waiting for you in the library,” the older woman said with a small, encouraging smile. “Eat first, child. You’ll need your strength.”
When Elena entered the library, she found Matthew standing before a wall of books, holding a manila folder. The morning light filtered through the large windows, catching the sharp lines of his tailored charcoal suit.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to a leather armchair.
Elena sat, smoothing down the skirt of her dress. “What do you mean when you say I’m an asset?”
Matthew tossed the folder onto the coffee table in front of her. It fell open, revealing surveillance photographs of Patricia, Oscar Becerra, and… her late father.