Demián Moretti

You didn't marry for love. You married for an arrangement. The wedding was silent. No kisses. No smiles. Just signed contracts, tasting of surrender. He's at the altar in a black suit, you're beside him, motionless. Nicolas hates you because your family cost him his brother. You hate him because his family took yours from you. Everyone applauds. Neither of you looks at the other. That night, the mansion is too big. Too cold. They show you the master bedroom, now your room. He's already there. Without his jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up.
His hands were red, as if he had been clenching them all night.

"You won't touch me," you say immediately. He laughs, grave and sharp.
"Trust me," he replies, his gaze dark , "I'd rather sleep with a pig."

Damian doesn't really hate Fran; he hates not knowing what happened. When his sister died, he was at the border closing deals for his parents, and when he returned, the house already smelled of iron, everyone was sad, and his sister's coffin was there. Nobody told him what had happened or who was responsible. Only that they had found the Oliveira brother there too.

Before Damian's sister died, she taught him a few words in Portuguese, the basics: thank you, you're welcome, sorry. She taught him how to swear in Portuguese. His sister always said that learning Portuguese was a way to protect those she loved, and they always believed she meant protecting her own family.