Family dinner today was like any other. The clink of spoons against porcelain, Eleanor blowing on her soup because it was too hot.
Then Father suddenly set down his spoon. The movement was slow, deliberate. Like an actor waiting for the stage lights to come on.
"I'll be signing the nationalization decree next week."
I stopped chewing.
Across the table, Isabella stopped too. Eleanor, as usual, noticed nothing—she was too busy separating carrots from her soup with her fingers, despite being told countless times not to.
Mother… Mother didn't stop chewing. But her rhythm changed. I recognized that shift. She chewed longer than a single spoonful of soup warranted. Like she was buying time before she had to respond.
"A decree about what?" Mother asked. Her voice was calm.
"Foreign oil companies," Father said. "And the mines. The utilities. It's time the nation's resources were managed by the nation. For a hundred years, we've only been suppliers of raw materials. It's not enough."
I stared at him. Truly stared. Looking for signs that this was a joke. That Carlos Mendez or one of the other advisors would emerge from behind the curtain and laugh, "Apologies, the General was only joking. This isn't real policy. We're still sane."
But no one appeared.
So I looked back at Father. The man who ten minutes ago had asked whether Eleanor had eaten lunch on time. The man who two days ago had laughed watching Fantasma squirm in my sister's hands.
The man now sitting at the head of the table in his uniform without a tie, talking about seizing foreign companies as if discussing the weather.
Nationalization…
It wasn't foreign to me. In my previous life, I'd seen it happen. In one country, a president with burning idealism took over foreign companies in the name of sovereignty.
The result? Embargoes. Economic blockades. Soaring debt. Inflation. Two decades later, that country still hadn't recovered.
But that was another world. Another time. And the man who'd done it wasn't my father.
Or perhaps that was precisely the problem.
"Ricardo." Mother set down her spoon. Her voice wasn't flat. It was colder. "Are you serious?"
"Very serious."
"Have you spoken with the economic advisors? With the finance minister? With—"
"Yes, they all support it."
I nearly choked. I stifled the cough by pressing my lips to my water glass, pretending to drink.
They all support it. Of course they do. Because they had nothing to lose. Because the ones who would pay the price for this policy weren't the ones sitting in cushy chairs at the palace.
Mother stared at Father. A long stare. Her eyes—usually warm and calm—now looked like cold metal under the crystal chandelier's light.
"You know who holds the mining concessions at El Callao?"
Father didn't answer. But I saw his jaw tighten.
"Brittonia," Mother continued. "A Brittonian imperial company. And you know what happened to the last country that tried to seize their assets without negotiation?"
"We're not some other country, Sofia."
"But Brittonia is still Brittonia, Ricardo. Their warships don't care what your country is called."
Silence. The soup in my bowl had gone cold. Eleanor, finally sensing something was wrong, looked back and forth between Father and Mother with wide eyes. Her hands had stopped over her plate, forgetting the carrots she'd so carefully separated.
I glanced at Isabella. Her face was pale. Her hands were in her lap, gripping a napkin until her knuckles turned white. She understood. Maybe not in as much detail as I did, but she understood that her parents weren't just exchanging opinions.
"They'll give us time to negotiate," Father said. His voice was still calm, but there was a defensive edge he couldn't fully hide. "This isn't confiscation. It's asset transfer with compensation. We'll pay, we'll negotiate a fair price."
"A fair price?" Mother nearly laughed. I saw her chest rising and falling rapidly. "Ricardo, business doesn't work like that. Prices are never 'fair.' Price is bargaining power. And we have no bargaining power. You know what they'll do? They'll pull their investments. They'll freeze our assets abroad. They'll tell all our trading partners that Venez is an untrustworthy country. And then—"
"Sofia."
"—and then the value of our agricultural products—our cocoa, our coffee—will collapse on international markets." Mother's voice rose. Not shouting. But enough to make Eleanor shrink in her chair. "Do you know how many families depend on agricultural exports? How many farmers will lose their livelihoods if prices drop? How many—"
"You're talking like a businesswoman, not the Head of State's wife."
The sentence landed between them like a stone.
I saw Mother go silent. Her face changed. No longer angry. There was something else—something deeper, older, more wounded. Like Father had just opened a door to a room that had long been locked.
From what I'd heard over the years, Mother's family owned the Los Altos coffee plantation. Three generations managing agricultural land. My great-grandfather on her side had started with two hectares and a bank loan. He'd died with eight hundred hectares and a reputation as one of the country's largest exporters.
Uncle Roberto, Mother's younger brother, now ran everything. A man with a thick mustache and dark eyes that always seemed to be calculating something.
He hadn't come to Father's inauguration. His reason was business. But I'd seen Mother's face when she received that telegram. She hadn't been angry. Just… sighed. Like something she'd expected.
"Ricardo," Mother said now. Her voice was low. Almost a whisper. "I'm not speaking as a businesswoman. I'm speaking as someone who's seen firsthand how policies made on paper destroy lives on the ground. You say you want to build a nation. Good. But building takes time. Takes stability. Takes trust. And you're risking all of it for one policy that—"
"—that will change this country forever." Father cut in. His eyes lit up with something I'd never seen before. Not anger. A fiercer kind of idealism. "Do you know how much money leaves this country every year? How much is taken by foreign companies that give nothing in return except low wages and pollution? I've seen the reports, Sofia. I've read the numbers. We're being exploited! From colonial times until now. And I won't let—"
"Then negotiate better terms!" Mother cut back. Now her voice was no longer low. "Increase extraction taxes, renegotiate contracts. But don't seize them by force! That's diplomatic suicide and you know it!"
Eleanor started crying. A small, muffled sound. Tears ran down her cheeks, still flecked with soup that had dribbled onto her chin. She wasn't sobbing loudly, just crying quietly, her shoulders rising and falling in small movements.
Isabella moved quickly. She left her chair, took Eleanor's hand, and pulled her sister to her feet. "Come on, El. I'll show you my room. I have new drawing books."
"I haven't finished eating," Eleanor said, her voice whiny.
"I'll bring you bread later, in your room."
Eleanor obeyed. Or maybe she just wanted to escape a room that had suddenly become too hot, too cramped, too heavy. Isabella led her away quickly, her arm around Eleanor's small shoulders. The dining room door closed behind them.
I stayed where I was.
I didn't know if it was the right decision. But my feet wouldn't move. I sat in my chair, staring at my cold, congealed soup, and listened to my parents argue in front of me.
"You don't understand, Sofia." Father was standing now. Hands on his hips, looking down at Mother. "You don't understand because you grew up in a family that had everything. Plantations. Land. Money. You've never seen what it's like to be—"
"Don't understand?" Mother stood. Her chair scraped loudly against the marble floor. "I don't understand? My father woke at three every morning for forty years. Forty years, Ricardo. I saw his hands, calloused, cracked. Sometimes bleeding from cutting coffee himself during harvest when there weren't enough workers. And you say I don't understand?!"
"Coffee isn't oil, Sofia. Coffee isn't copper. Coffee isn't—"
"It's all the same!" Mother's voice rose. I'd never heard Mother's voice this loud. Never. "It's all the same, Ricardo! Land. Workers. Families whose lives depend on what grows from that land. You talk about sovereignty? About independence? Fine. But sovereignty can't be eaten. Independence doesn't pay for children's schooling. Independence doesn't—"
"Independence is the foundation for everything!" Father slammed his palm on the table.
Dishes rattled. Crystal glasses nearly toppled. The soup in my bowl swayed, splattering the white tablecloth.
I didn't move.
They both looked at me.
Perhaps just realizing I was still there. Sitting in my chair with my hands in my lap, watching them with eyes that—I hoped—were empty enough to pass for a frightened child, not a child calculating monetary policy consequences in his head.
Mother was the first to look away. She took a deep breath, smoothed her dress with automatic movements, and sat back down. Her hand reached for her wine glass, but she didn't drink. Just held it.
Father sat too. But didn't return to his soup. He stared at the table, at the tablecloth stained with splattered soup, at lines that traced maps invisible to others.
"I'm sorry," Father said finally. His voice was rough. "I'm sorry, Sofia."
Mother didn't answer.
She set down her glass. Stood. Didn't look at Father, didn't look at me. She walked toward the door with measured steps, too measured, like she was counting each step to keep herself from running.
The door closed.
Father closed his eyes.
I still sat in my chair. Still stared at the cold soup before me. Still didn't move.
"You can go, Mateo," Father said. His eyes were still closed.
I stood. But I didn't go to the door. I walked to the side of the table, picked up Eleanor's half-eaten plate, Isabella's untouched one, Mother's plate—which I now saw had barely been touched.
I stacked them quietly. One by one. Spoons. Forks. Glasses still full.
Father opened his eyes. Watched me clearing the table.
"The servants will handle that," he said.
"I know."
I kept clearing. Not because I cared about the dining table. But because my hands needed something to do. Something concrete. Something that didn't involve choosing between supporting Father or defending Mother or pretending not to understand anything.
When all the plates were stacked neatly at the table's end, I turned to Father.
He looked at me with eyes that were… tired. So tired. Like a man who'd just realized the battle he thought he'd won at the Santa Anna Bridge was only the beginning.
"Father," I said.
"Yes?"
I wanted to speak. About the inflation that would follow forced nationalization. About how foreign companies would pull all their investments and leave a hole no country could fill quickly. About how economic blockades would destroy export values—including the coffee that was the backbone of thousands of families.
But I was a ten-year-old who'd just watched his parents fight. And ten-year-olds didn't know about inflation or economic blockades.
"The soup is cold," I said finally.
Father stared at me. Then he laughed. Not a happy laugh. A bitter laugh, short, like a cough.
"Yes," he said. "Cold…"
I walked to the door. At the threshold, I stopped.
"Father."
"Yes?"
"Those rules… have you really thought them through?"
Father looked at me. His eyes narrowed, searching my face.
"You disagree too?"
That wasn't the question. But I didn't know how to explain the difference to Father. That it wasn't about agreeing or disagreeing. It was about method. About speed. About who would bear the burden and whether they were ready.
"No," I said. "I just… you once talked about a new vase. About cleaning up the shards. I just…"
I stopped. Words were too heavy for a ten-year-old's mouth.
"It's okay." Father exhaled. "Go, Mateo. Get some rest."
I left.
***
Isabella heard Eleanor's bedroom door close.
Her little sister had finally fallen asleep after half an hour of crying and asking why Father and Mother were fighting. Isabella hadn't known what to say. She'd just held Eleanor, stroked her hair, still damp with tears, and whispered that everything would be all right.
It was a lie. But Eleanor was young and needed comforting lies.
Now Isabella stood at her window, second floor, east wing, overlooking the darkened palace garden. The garden lights were dim, just enough to see the paths and the tree in the western corner.
On a garden bench, under that tree, Isabella saw a small figure sitting alone.
Mateo.
Her brother—younger brother? She never knew which was right. Mateo was younger in age, but sometimes Isabella felt like she was the younger one.
The way Mateo spoke, the way he was silent, the way he looked at things as if reading a book no one else could see.
People said Mateo was a quiet child. Isabella knew that didn't quite explain it. Mateo wasn't just quiet. Mateo chose to be quiet. He chose his words carefully, like he was playing a game.
Isabella remembered when they were still in the old house. Mateo was five; he'd found an astronomy book in Father's small library. It was thick, full of diagrams and numbers. Mateo read it for three days.
Then on the fourth night, as they ate dinner on the terrace, Mateo pointed at the sky and said, "That star is actually dead."
Father laughed. Mother looked slightly worried. They thought he was joking; even back then, she'd thought he was joking.
Isabella hadn't known what to feel. She was proud to have such a clever little brother. But there was something unsettling. Something she couldn't explain.
The way Mateo looked at those stars—not like a child in wonder, but like someone searching for something. Or remembering something.
Now, in the garden below, Mateo still sat on the bench. He wasn't moving. Just staring at the sky—the night was clear, stars visible, with no city lights too close.
Isabella opened her window. Night air rushed in, cold, carrying the scent of grass and damp earth.
She hesitated. Maybe Mateo wanted to be alone. Maybe he was thinking about the fight, about Father and Mother, about Eleanor crying.
But then Isabella saw Mateo's shoulders rise and fall slowly. Like he was sighing. Like he was carrying something too heavy for a ten-year-old.
She closed her window, walked down the hallway, descended the cold stone stairs with bare feet, and went out to the garden.
***
I heard footsteps on gravel before I saw her.
Slow. Careful. The steps of someone who didn't want to startle.
Isabella…
I didn't turn. I kept staring at the sky, letting her decide whether to sit beside me or just pass by.
She chose to sit.
On the same garden bench, under the same tree. Close enough to be polite, near enough to talk if needed.
"Eleanor asleep?" I asked.
"Yes. She cried for half an hour, then slept."
"She'll forget by tomorrow."
"Maybe… or maybe she'll remember. Depends on how often she recalls it."
I nodded. Eleanor had her own way of handling things she didn't understand. She forgot. Or pretended to.
Isabella was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're not surprised."
A statement, not a question.
I turned to her. Her face was half-lit by garden lights, half in shadow. Her eyes looked at me with something I couldn't read.
"You mean about Father's new rules?" I asked.
"About everything. About the fight. You didn't look surprised at all. Like… you already knew."
I looked away. Back at the sky. The stars were still there, silent, indifferent to human squabbles below.
"I didn't know," I said. "I just… guessed it would happen someday."
"What?"
"Father and Mother arguing about something big."
Isabella didn't answer. But I felt her watching me. Her eyes—often hard, too mature for a fifteen-year-old—were soft now.
"You know," she said quietly, "sometimes I feel like you're older than me."
I smiled. A smile I hoped was vague enough to mean nothing.
"No way. I'm only ten."
"Not age." Isabella clasped her hands in her lap. Her fingers were slender, long, like a pianist's. "I don't know. Maybe the way you talk, or the way you're silent. Sometimes you look like you're thinking about something… far away. Something other people can't see."
I didn't answer.
I couldn't say that I'd lived more than once. That in my previous life, I'd been an executioner clearing the path for people like Father. Or like Carlos Mendez. Or maybe both.
I couldn't say that.
So I just sat on the garden bench, under stars that might have died millions of years ago, and let Isabella sit beside me with questions I'd never answer.
"Bella," I said finally.
"Yes?"
"Do you believe Father can make this country better?"
She was quiet a long time. So long I almost thought she wouldn't answer.
"I want to believe," she said finally. Her voice was small. "I want to believe Father knows what he's doing. That all of this—this palace, this uniform, these speeches—will mean something. That we didn't move here just to…"
She didn't finish.
I waited.
"Sometimes," Isabella continued, her eyes not looking at me, only at the darkness between the garden lights, "sometimes I'm scared. Not scared of Father. Not scared of Mother. But scared that we can never go back to how we were. To living peacefully, quietly…"
I looked at her.
I was just a ten-year-old sitting on a garden bench. Not a minister. Not an advisor. No one. No one would listen if I talked about inflation, or the history of failed nationalizations in other countries.
They'd pat my head and say, "How funny this child is, talking like an adult," and forget it by the next day.
But on the other hand—I was the Head of State's son. I sat at the same table as the decision-makers. I heard conversations others didn't. I saw maps others didn't.
Maybe that was enough. For now.
"You know, Bella," I said, "Father is like…"
"Like what?"
I searched for the right words. Not too adult, but not too childish either.
"He's like a carpenter who wants to build a new house. But he's so focused on the house's design, he forgets to check if the wood is strong enough."
Isabella stared at me. Then, slowly, she smiled. Not a happy smile. But a relieved one.
"You really are strange, Mateo," she said.
"I know."
"But maybe we need someone strange in this family."
I nearly laughed.
"Let's go in," Isabella said, standing. "The air's getting cold."
I nodded.
Isabella walked ahead, her footsteps soft on the gravel. I followed, but at the back door, I stopped and turned to look at the garden one more time.
Fantasma was gone.
But I saw something else. A lit cigar on the second-floor balcony of the west wing. Father's study.
Father wasn't asleep.
He stood there, between open curtains, looking at the same garden I'd just left. Or looking at something far beyond the garden. Beyond the palace. Beyond the city.
Cigar smoke rose thin into the night air, climbing toward the sky, mingling with starlight.
I closed the door behind me.