Chapter 11.

The Relentless Inheritance.

Christianne Bardot sat in her room, in front of the mirror, deliberately combing her hair. Her movements were methodical, cold, almost calculated. Her life was a reflection of her surroundings: a chessboard where every move counted, and every player had their place. But at that moment, her mind wandered, caught between memories of the past and her desire for independence.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Don Vito Bardot entered with his characteristic authoritarian bearing, and the atmosphere became oppressive. Christianne looked up, staring at him through the mirror, her brow furrowed in displeasure.

Christianne, we need to talk, Don Vito said, closing the door behind him with a bang that echoed in the room. He was holding a sealed envelope that she immediately recognized as bearing bad news.

I don't have time for your sermons, Papa, she replied with calculated coldness. I'm busy.

This isn't a request, daughter, Don Vito retorted, ignoring her attitude. He walked toward her, placing the envelope in front of the mirror. Read this.

With a sigh, Christianne took the envelope and broke the seal. Her eyes quickly scanned the contents of the letter, but as she read, her pupils dilated with disbelief. When she finished, she dropped it to the floor.

What is this? she asked, her tone thick with suppressed fury. ¿An arranged marriage with Alain Bardot? This is a joke,  ¿isn't it?

There are no jokes here, Christianne, Don Vito said, crossing his arms. It's an agreement made between our family and Amancio Bardot's. You'll be married next month.

Christianne stood up abruptly, her chair falling back. I'm not going to do this! she exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. I'm not a commodity for you to trade like a damn contract or a piece of merchandise you can sell. Alain Bardot is an idiot, and worse, he's weak. I don't want a man who bends to his father's commands.

This isn't an argument, child, Don Vito said, his voice deepening. He took a step toward her, the distance between them rapidly closing. This marriage is essential to our family. The Bardots and we must unite to maintain our control. I don't care if you love him or hate him. You will marry him.

¿And what about what I want? Christianne demanded, feeling the heat of her rage begin to boil inside her. ¿What if I reject this absurd imposition?

Don Vito pulled a pistol from under his jacket and pointed it directly at his daughter. The room filled with a thick silence, broken only by the sound of Christianne's rapid breathing.

I suggest you don't test my patience, Don Vito said, his voice low, but thick with menace. You're marrying Alain Bardot, and I don't want to hear another damn tantrum about it. Our family must remain pure. The Bardot name is the only one worthy enough to blend with ours.

Christianne stared at him, not flinching. But inside, something was breaking. She knew her father didn't hesitate to carry out his threats. He'd seen what she was capable of and had no illusions that he would make exceptions for her.

I accept, she said finally, through gritted teeth. But her eyes shone with a dangerous mix of fury and defiance. But this isn't over, Papa. Alain Bardot will be my husband, but I promise you I'll get even for this.

Don Vito lowered his gun slowly, his face showing satisfaction. I knew you'd make the right decision, he said, holstering the pistol and turning his back on her. Prepare yourself, Christianne. This marriage is only the beginning.

As the door closed behind him, Christianne dropped her facade for a moment. Her body trembled, not from fear, but from rage. She walked to the mirror and stared at herself, as if trying to reassert her own strength.

If they think I'm going to be a submissive wife, they're sorely mistaken, she muttered to herself. Alain Bardot and my father have no idea who they're playing with. This game is just beginning.

That night, while the world seemed to sleep, Christianne began to draw up her plan. She wouldn't let anyone control her destiny, not even her father. And if she hadn't killed the man before, this time she would. It didn't matter that she was a young widow, after all; all that was needed was the last name, ¿right?