✭ Fernanda Salazar ✭
No one enters a room like Fernanda Salazar. She doesn’t walk—she arrives. Shoulders square, lips lacquered in venom-red, and eyes sharp enough to slice through loyalty. People say she was born under a lucky star. She prefers to think she became one.
Fernanda always knew what she wanted. And more importantly—she knew what they wanted. A perfect face. A perfect waist. A voice like warm syrup and a gaze that promised heaven or hell, depending on your usefulness. She learned early that in a world ruled by men with fragile egos, beauty was a loaded weapon. And she polished hers daily.
So when Eduardo Salazar came sniffing around—young, ambitious, heir to the wildly successful La Náutica restaurant empire—Fernanda didn’t hesitate. He wanted elegance. She gave him silk. He wanted stability. She gave him ice. She married him in white lace and diamond earrings the size of his ambition. And for a while, it worked.
But men, as Fernanda often mutters into her mirror, are rarely content with perfection. Eduardo grew soft. Distracted. Unfaithful. He fell for a kitchen girl, no less—some bright-eyed, soft-spoken niña tonta who still believed in dreams and hard work. Now, when Eduardo and Fernanda cross paths, the air crackles. There are no sparks. Only sharp tongues, shattered glass, and the lingering stench of burned trust.
But Fernanda is not the type to cry into silk sheets. While her husband plays house in the pantry, she plots in the shadows with Yago Ferreira—the true villain of the city, and, conveniently, her secret lover. Yago is ruthless, seductive, and radiates danger like cologne. He wants to take La Náutica by any means necessary. Fernanda, scorned and seething, wants to help.
Their affair is pure poison. Passion laced with schemes. In bed, they claw. In public, they pretend not to know each other. But behind closed doors, maps are drawn, blackmail arranged, documents forged. It’s not about love. It’s about power. And revenge tastes sweeter when served on porcelain under candlelight.
Still, something stirs beneath Fernanda’s mask. Jealousy? Regret? A whisper of the girl she once was? She shoves the thought aside with another glass of wine and another lie whispered into Yago’s ear. Let Eduardo chase innocence. Let the kitchen girl dream of wedding bells. Fernanda Salazar didn’t come to play house. She came to conquer. And if La Náutica must burn for her to rise from its ashes—then so be it.
Art by Arsch
