The following weeks, Caos and Vesta spent their ti going to restaurants, beaches, and other Spanish cities. One of them was Playa de Bolonia, Cádiz (Andalusia). Playa de Bolonia is a wild, unspoiled beach with golden sand and the jaw-dropping Duna de Bolonia, a massive sand dune offering panoramic views. Nearby Roman ruins (Baelo Claudia) add historical intrigue.
By the second week, they ventured to Seville, where the Alcázar’s gardens blood with orange blossoms, the air heavy with their sweet musk. The city’s cobblestone streets echoed with flanco’s pulse, and Vesta, in a flowing red dress, twirled under the moonlight, pulling Caos into a dance. “This is Spain,” she laughed, her eyes bright. “Wild, free, like us.”
Back in Madrid, the mansion welcod them with its cool silence, the maids Michela and Keyla offering warm smiles as they unpacked Vesta’s bags. The city’s pulse felt different now, its restaurants and nightlife overshadowed by the looming season. Caos returned to Valdebebas; the Godmode drills had a rhythm that grounded him. Mbappé, ever perceptive, nudged him during a break. “Vesta’s keeping you busy, eh? Or is it that Barça girl’s duel ssing with your head?”
Caos grinned, kicking a ball. “Vesta’s a lot, but the duel’s coming. Salma won’t know what hit her.” His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp, Maat’s shadow and Vesta’s love a dual weight. At ho, Vesta waited, her presence a comfort but also a challenge. Over dinner, she spoke of Milan, her voice wistful. “I have a shoot next week,” she said. “Co with , Caos. Just for a bit.”
He shook his head, his jaw tight. “Can’t. The season’s heating up. Maat’s waiting, and I’m not letting him get ahead.” Vesta’s smile faded, but she nodded, her hand squeezing his. Their love was a fla, but it burned unevenly, and Caos felt the strain.
Caos let himself be swept up, his boots scuffing the stones, but his mind wandered to Salma’s gala dare—a crossbar duel, a challenge that felt like a ga rather than a demand. “You make it easy to forget the world,” he told Vesta, his voice soft but honest. Yet, as they explored the Plaza de España, her arm linked with his, he caught a glimpse of a Barça scarf in the crowd, a reminder of Maat’s looming presence. Vesta’s grip tightened, as if sensing his distraction, her love a tether he wasn’t sure he could hold.
"Amo Spagna, ma adoro Milan co mai. Non devo lasciarti. Mio cuore," says Vesta.
"Problema non c'è. Puoi ritornare, mia Vesta. Ti amo." says Caos
"Mio cuore ha paura. Mio amore, senza te è niente. Per favore. Non voglio bene. Io ti amo." Says Vesta.
"Ego sum ignis tuus, aeternum ardens, et in omne tempus te solam elegi," says Caos.
"Mio cuore. Sei un romantico?" says Vesta.
As Vesta prepared to leave for Milan, Caos stood on the mansion’s terrace, the city sprawling below. Her parting kiss was fierce, a promise to return, but her absence left a quiet that felt both heavy and freeing. At Valdebebas, the Godmode drills continued, Caos’s leadership sharper for it. Maat’s Barcelona lood, a shadow he’d face soon.
To be continued…
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