The war ended not with a wedding—but with two. Carmen and Sofía married six months later in a double-ceremony that combined flamenco fire and modernist ice. Álvaro attended as a guest, sitting in the back, still a little confused but ultimately relieved to be out of the crossfire.
At the reception, when asked for a speech, he simply raised his glass and said: “I was never the prize. I was just the battlefield.”
Gasps. A clink of a dropped champagne flute. Guerra de Novias
“You fight dirty,” Carmen whispered.
Sofía arrived uninvited, dressed in midnight blue, carrying a rolled-up parchment. The war ended not with a wedding—but with two
“Oh, I have a penthouse in Madrid,” Sofía said. “Solid granite foundation.”
“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.” At the reception, when asked for a speech,
Carmen froze. Then, slowly, her fury melted into something else—surprise, then curiosity, then a slow, dangerous smile.
Both women turned to him, then to each other.
Carmen’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll remember that when you’re serving canapés at my wedding.”
“I’m an architect,” Sofía said calmly. “I survey the ground before I build on it. And you, Carmen, are quicklime.”
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