The Ghost That Breathes: Cruz’s Shadow Looms Large Over La Promesa

From the first moment the sun timidly rose over La Promesa, it was clear something had shifted. The morning, instead of arriving with the usual golden light over the Andalusian fields, emerged cloaked in an eerie stillness—one that seemed to suck the life from every corner of the palace. A gray veil wrapped the estate in a melancholy silence, and although not a single drop of rain fell, the atmosphere was saturated with unease.

On the service floor, the usual bustle of workers had all but vanished. Simona and Candela, normally the heart and soul of the kitchen with their friendly bickering, moved like sleepwalkers through their tasks. Even the simplest chore—like peeling potatoes—became a laborious ritual. Candela’s silence, heavy and slow, was finally broken when Simona asked, half-joking, “Are you peeling its soul?” But Candela’s reply wasn’t humorous. She confessed that the air felt heavier—as though something evil, something old and angry, had slipped through the cracks of La Promesa and now hovered unseen.

They weren’t the only ones to notice. In the dining hall, María Fernández stared vacantly out the window, food untouched. Her grief over Samuel’s disappearance already weighed her down, but today’s dread was different. Petra Arcos, seated nearby, known for her iron resolve, also confessed a creeping unease—something slithering through the palace, something poisonous. She described the atmosphere as “funereal,” her voice slicing through the silence with sharp truth.

Even the usually composed Pía Adarre, the housekeeper, couldn’t deny the shift. Every creak of the wooden floorboards, every speck of dust gathering too quickly, whispered of something unnatural. The walls of the estate seemed to be holding their breath, waiting—dreading—what was to come.

A Dark Influence Returns

Elsewhere in the manor, Curro De La Mata attempted to read in the library, but the words blurred on the page. A chill clung to him, refusing to let go. Seeking comfort or clarity, he found Ángela, his mother’s maid. When he voiced his unease, Ángela didn’t scoff. Instead, with the wisdom earned through years spent within the mansion’s haunted halls, she confirmed his fear. Yes, she said. The air was thicker. The shadows longer. Today was a day the house remembered—and sometimes, memory speaks louder than reality.

But none of them knew just how real this haunting was. Not until the call.

Cruz’s Reach Beyond the Walls

Alonso, the marqués, buried in estate paperwork, answered a phone call that sent a jolt through his spine. The voice on the other end belonged to the director of the sanatorium where his wife, Cruz Izquierdo, remained confined. But this wasn’t about an escape or a breakdown. It was worse.

It was about her influence.

She had found a way to infiltrate La Promesa once more. Through letters. Through intermediaries. Through willpower alone.

Cruz, though absent in flesh, was present in spirit—and poison. Her manipulations had begun again. The first demand she’d issued, through legal channels, was now weighing heavily on Alonso: a decision that, though cloaked in pragmatism, reeked of submission.

And that decision had a name: Catalina.

The Fall of Catalina

When Catalina arrived in her father’s office—eager to discuss harvest plans and strategies for the estate—she was met not with gratitude, but dismissal. Cold, impersonal, and final.

“You will no longer be in charge of the administration,” Alonso said, eyes averted. “I’m hiring a professional. Your role will return to that of a proper lady of the house.”

Catalina froze. The words burned worse than fire. “Things for women.” That was Cruz’s voice. Cruz’s doctrine. And now it spilled from her father’s lips.

Staggering from betrayal, Catalina knew immediately—this wasn’t his idea. It was hers. Cruz. Still pulling strings from her sterile cell.

Rage and sorrow collided within her. “Then I’m leaving La Promesa,” she declared. Not as a child storming off—but as a woman who had been gutted of her purpose. Alonso begged her to reconsider, but she refused. “You’ve taken the only thing that tethered me to this place,” she said, her voice ice. “Now it is meaningless.”

She stormed to her room and began packing—every blouse, every dress a thread severing her tie to a house that had once been hers to steward. Adriano, shocked, found her mid-frenzy. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“My father has erased me,” she answered bitterly. “He says my place is with embroidery and charity events.”

The couple argued bitterly—about dignity, about loyalty, about escape. Adriano reminded her that he had once suggested leaving La Promesa together. But this, he said, was not that. This was rage. This was flight. And she was leaving alone.

He pleaded: “Fight. Prove them wrong. Show your father who you really are.”

But Catalina was broken. And Cruz had won this round.

A Devil’s Deal in the Music Room

Meanwhile, in another part of the house, a different sort of manipulation unfolded. Leocadia, with her daughter Enora and the heir Manuel, shared news that could redefine their jam business—a major contract, thanks to a call from a powerful Catalan businessman. But there was a price.

Leocadia offered to inject the needed capital—but in return, she wanted to become majority owner.

Manuel hesitated. This business was his escape, his freedom. Handing over control would be a personal defeat. But the numbers didn’t lie, and Leocadia’s reasoning was airtight. “You fly planes. You manage family burdens. I, however, can dedicate myself fully,” she argued.

Even Enora urged him on. “Think of Paris. London. This is our moment.”

Manuel stared at the two women—one cunning, one idealistic—and felt the walls close in. Was he preserving a dream, or just delaying the inevitable?

A House in Shadows

As the sun began to set, La Promesa stood under the same uncertain light it had started with. Nothing had exploded. No thunder had cracked the skies. But inside its walls, bombs had fallen.

Cruz, though miles away, had asserted her control with surgical precision. Through one phone call, one manipulation, she had unraveled months of progress, shattered Catalina’s role, and cracked the unity between daughter and father.

And in the silence that followed, her laugh seemed to echo—cold, victorious, and unstoppable.

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