Snow dusted the Bel Air hills on Christmas Eve, a rare and fragile miracle in a city that rarely saw winter. The mansion had been transformed. Twinkling lights wound through the iron gates and draped the bougainvillea. A massive tree stood in the great hall, decorated with gold ornaments and tiny candles that flickered in the dim light. The scent of pine and cinnamon and slow-roasting pork drifted through the corridors, mingling with the faint, sweet smell of baby powder.

Mariana stood at the window of the nursery, three-month-old Mateo cradled against her chest, and watched the snow fall. Her body had softened since the birth, her curves fuller, her hips wider, a body shaped by motherhood and the relentless devotion of a husband who could not keep his hands off her. She wore a deep green dress tonight, velvet that clung to her new shape, and Mateo was bundled in a white onesie embroidered with tiny reindeer.