Meanwhile, in the village, a new storm was brewing. Inocencia, the town gossip with a heart of vinegar, spread rumors that Marimar had thrown herself at Sergio to trap him. “She’s just a beggar who wants to be a princess,” she whispered to the fishwives. But Corazón, the baker who had become a mother figure to Marimar, silenced them with a sharp glare.

“I lied,” he whispered, kneeling beside her. “Marimar… I can’t stay away. But I can’t be with you either. Not openly. Not yet.”

“You did the right thing,” Angélica purred. “That barefoot girl is nothing but a stain on our family name. You belong with Antonieta—wealthy, proper, and approved by your father.”

For one stolen hour, there was no estate, no feud, no society. Just two souls clinging to each other in the dark.

“The young master has returned to the beach girl,” he whispered.

He took her hands, rough and calloused from washing clothes in the river. “I’m saying… I will see you in secret. We will meet at the old lighthouse at dusk. No one will know. Just until I find a way to make my father accept you.”

Her brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”