"I don't think we do," he grumbled in response. He hadn't gotten a letter from her, but that didn't mean she hadn't sent one. He'd been away from home nine months by now, and he hadn't exactly been present before that. He didn't even know if his family had his current address; he'd mostly stopped writing since the wedding. (How had Adriana even found him here? Terrible coincidence, or had she expended real resources hunting him down?)

Either way, there was nothing they could possibly need to discuss here, now, after nearly a decade without speaking. "Just tell me what it takes to get you to leave again."

A conversation ensued, too quick and low for Valencia to follow, in which it became clear to Don Juan that Adriana wanted nothing at all except to ruin this for him. Spite had driven her here, not need. Spite had always been her strongest driver, Don Juan thought.

Eventually he tossed the now cooling pan onto the nearest table in frustration. "Valencia," he said — Ana had made it clear she wouldn't leave without an introduction. "This is Adriana Dempsey."

"Adriana Spaans," she corrected.

Don Juan glowered and called her something excessively impolite, which he hoped neither woman's English was good enough to understand.

---