La Marea del Corazón

The storm that had been brewing in the air for days finally broke, mirroring the tempest within Abel. Rain lashed against the windows of the Roosevelt’s old house, each drop a percussive beat against the fragile peace they had built. The wind howled like a banshee, rattling the ancient panes, a stark counterpoint to the hushed, tense atmosphere in the living room. Abel stood by the fireplace, the warmth of the dying embers doing little to thaw the ice gripping his chest. His hands were clenched, knuckles white, as he stared into the dancing flames, seeing not fire, but the flickering images of his past, resurrected and paraded before him.

Ivelisse sat on the edge of an armchair, her spine ramrod straight, her usually expressive hands clasped tightly in her lap, almost bruising the skin. Her gaze, typically soft and inquisitive, was now sharp, wounded. The news, delivered by a frantic phone call from his former assistant – a call he had foolishly taken, believing himself safe within the Roosevelt’s sanctuary – had shattered the fragile edifice of his carefully constructed new life. The words, clipped and desperate, had painted a grim picture: his company, once a titan, now teetering on the brink of collapse, his name dragged through the mud, a scandal brewing that threatened to consume him entirely.

“Abel,” Ivelisse’s voice was a mere thread, barely audible above the storm. “What was that call about?”