“It’s not a country club,” Alejandro said flatly as he stepped onto the gravel beside his mother, his face pale against his dark jacket.

Marcus walked out of the stone gatehouse in his formal dark navy estate uniform, white gloves spotless, hands clasped firmly behind his back.

Two uniformed estate officers followed three paces behind him, each holding a heavy ledger bound in deep burgundy leather.

“Open these gates right now,” Doña Victoria shouted, taking three quick steps toward the iron bars.

“Tell Elena Varela to come out here this instant and answer for this lie.”

Marcus stopped two feet short of the iron gate and brought his heels together with a quiet, crisp click.