The golden light of La Promessa streamed through its high windows, bathing the marble corridors in a deceptive warmth. For Jana, that glow held no comfort. Ever since Gloria had taken her under her wing, her days had shifted from the routine of servant duties and secret glances at Manuel, to an intense training regimen—lessons in posture, speech, and etiquette, each designed to mold her into “a lady.”

Gloria’s calm assurance had been disarming. “I will make you a lady,” she had promised, as if the transformation could be pressed into shape as easily as a freshly ironed tablecloth. Jana had accepted with caution. In this house, kindness often came with hidden blades. But Gloria was not Cruz—or at least, she hid her schemes well.

Jana learned to straighten her spine, to move with deliberate grace, to sit as if the chair itself were part of an unspoken conversation. Her hands, once restless, were now trained to be still, every gesture measured. Yet beneath this cultivated poise, her heart still pulsed with unease. She suspected that Gloria’s tutelage was more than mere refinement—it was a calculated move in Cruz’s broader game.

That morning, Gloria had informed her without hesitation: “Tonight, you will dine with the family.” No question, no choice. For Jana, the family’s table was a battlefield—every word a potential trap, every silence a test of strength.

By evening, Jana descended the stairs in an elegant dress chosen for her—a garment that made her barely recognize herself in the mirror. Catalina greeted her warmly: “You look beautiful.” Curro gave a nod of pride; Manuel’s smile carried unspoken longing.

Dinner began with business talk. Alonso raised concerns about a military count’s business proposal. Lorenzo, seated nearby, wore the smirk Jana had learned to dread—the prelude to a verbal ambush. When he spoke of the necessity of strict control over workers, Jana’s restraint wavered. Carefully, she argued that leadership required listening and collaboration, not imposition.

Lorenzo tilted his head, eyes glinting with predatory amusement. He countered with examples from his military past, praising obedience and the “iron fist.” His words were bait, each one designed to provoke. Catalina sensed Jana’s growing tension; Curro leaned forward like a spectator at a duel. Manuel watched her intently but did not intervene.

Then came Lorenzo’s decisive strike: “With workers, you need an iron fist, or they take liberties.”

Something in Jana snapped. Silence fell over the table, thick and heavy. Her voice, low but sharp, cut through it:
“You don’t want discipline, Captain. You want submission. That’s not leadership—it’s slavery.”

The word slavery dropped like ice into warm water. All eyes fixed on her. Lorenzo’s smile was slow, dangerous. “Ah,” he said, “the true nature always surfaces. I wonder how long until the others see it too.”

Catalina’s approving glance was matched by Curro’s half-smile. Gloria’s look, however, was one of silent disappointment. Jana realized she had given Lorenzo exactly what he wanted.

The meal limped forward under forced conversation. As it ended, Manuel murmured to her: “You weren’t wrong. But they’ll make you pay for how you said it.” In the hallway, Gloria waited. “You have much to learn, Jana,” she said softly. “And I don’t mean etiquette.”

Elsewhere, Cruz sipped red wine, satisfied. Gloria had prepared Jana for her debut—and the cracks had shown. For Cruz, Jana’s outburst was a victory; the right provocation had revealed the girl’s raw edges in front of everyone.

Upstairs, Jana removed her dress slowly, her movements deliberate. The mirror reflected not defeat, but the weight of a mistake freshly made. Catalina brought her tea: “You spoke the truth. But here, every word is currency—and not all spend it honestly.” Curro’s warning followed: “Lorenzo doesn’t forget.”

The next morning, whispers buzzed in the servants’ quarters. Candela teased her about “teaching the captain a lesson,” while Simona cautioned that such clashes left lasting marks. Meanwhile, Lorenzo quietly spun his version of events to Alonso, painting Jana as ill-suited for the life ahead. Alonso, knowing the truth of her bloodline, refused to judge her on one exchange: “Respect is earned—not just by obedience.”

Cruz, however, acted swiftly. “I don’t want last night repeated,” she told Gloria. The governess answered evenly: “Every student stumbles, Marchioness. The question is how she rises.” Cruz ordered her to teach Jana to weigh her words—but not to extinguish the fire inside.

When Jana arrived for her lesson, Gloria surprised her with a topic: diplomacy. “Not treaties—survival,” she clarified. Jana recounted the dinner, realizing Lorenzo had dictated the timing of her outburst. “When you let them choose when you react, you give them power,” Gloria said.

The rest of the morning was practice—neutral tones in response to provocation, using questions instead of declarations, mastering the weapon of silence. Jana found restraint harder than speaking, but more powerful.

In the corridor afterward, Curro asked, “How’s Cruz’s school?” Jana smirked. “It’s my school. And when I’ve learned enough, I’ll decide how to use it.” Curro nodded. “Good. Here, every word is a knife. You must know when to draw it.”

But Jana could feel it—the eyes on her, measuring her, deciding which way she would fall. Catalina visited in the afternoon with a book of poetry. “Not everything in this house is calculation,” she said. Jana wondered if that was true.

For now, the lesson was clear: she had won the skirmish in spirit, but on this chessboard, victory was rarely in the move you made—it was in the timing you chose not to.