And that was the end of the Guerra de Novias .

“I’m an architect,” Sofía said calmly. “I survey the ground before I build on it. And you, Carmen, are quicklime.”

On one side stood , a flamenco-dancing heiress with a mane of chestnut curls and a smile sharp as a navaja . She was pure fire, raised on sherry and the art of the seguidilla . Her family’s olive oil fortune could buy half of Andalusia, and she believed Álvaro de la Peña—tall, tan, and tediously handsome—belonged to her by divine right.

“I fight to win,” Sofía replied.

And then, with a move that would be retold in tapas bars for decades, Sofía leaned forward and kissed Carmen.

Carmen’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll remember that when you’re serving canapés at my wedding.”

Carmen froze. Then, slowly, her fury melted into something else—surprise, then curiosity, then a slow, dangerous smile.

Carmen hired a cantaor to sing a soleá beneath Sofía’s balcony at 3 a.m., accusing her of having “the passion of a refrigerator.” Sofía responded by buying the flower shop that was set to supply Carmen’s wedding bouquets—and canceling all future orders to Carmen’s address.