Novias | Guerra De

Carmen’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll remember that when you’re serving canapés at my wedding.”

Within a week, Seville had taken sides. The elderly dueñas placed bets with pearls and gold coins. The local priest, Father Ignacio, began praying for a third option—perhaps a sudden vocation to the priesthood for Álvaro.

“You can’t marry Álvaro without orange blossoms,” Sofía whispered over the phone. “It’s bad luck.” Guerra de Novias

Álvaro looked from one woman to the other, his handsome face slack with confusion. “So… neither of you has a sinkhole?”

“No,” Sofía said, unrolling the parchment. “I’m going to show him that the Vega-Luna estate sits on a sinkhole. A legal, geological, and financial sinkhole. The finca will be worthless in five years. The olive oil fortune? It’s evaporating as we speak.” Carmen’s eyes narrowed

Álvaro cleared his throat. “I… feel like I’m missing something.”

Carmen’s face went pale, then red, then a dangerous shade of violet. “You vile, map-rolling—you spied on my family’s accounts?” The local priest, Father Ignacio, began praying for

The battlefield? Every tapas bar, cathedral step, and finca in a fifty-kilometer radius.

“No,” Sofía agreed. “It’s over when I say it’s over.”

Carmen froze. Then, slowly, her fury melted into something else—surprise, then curiosity, then a slow, dangerous smile.

Carmen stepped forward, fists clenched. “This isn’t over, arquitecta de mierda .”