In San Miguel de Allende, nineteen-year-old socialite Araceli Flores loses everything overnight—her beloved father presumed dead, her home gambled away, and her family’s fortune stolen by ruthless mob boss Hector de Nava.

Forced into servitude for the man responsible, Araceli’s only hope lies in the gift she’d always considered a burden: channeling the ancestors during El Día de los Muertos. Desperate for answers, she attempts to use her abilities to discover the truth, but the ancestors offer only a frantic warning: “Don’t drink the water.”

Aided by her childhood crush, Araceli unearths a conspiracy that runs deeper than her father’s disappearance—one Hector will kill to keep buried. But as bodies begin to fall and Hector closes in, she must bridge the gap between life and death to restore her legacy and free San Miguel from corruption.

Steeped in revenge, ancestral magic, and love, The Marigold Bridge is a spellbinding tale where fortune favors the humble—and the dead refuse to stay silent.

14+ due to adult situations and sexuality

 

Excerpt:

Araceli leaned her forehead against the cool stucco wall and puffed out her cheeks. Two weeks. It had been two weeks since her entire world flipped on its axis. She moved through each day in a fog. It was like she had stepped into a dream—or better yet, a nightmare.

The black and white uniform mocked her as she slipped it on. This ugly thing is no better than a poorly made American Halloween costume.

She tugged at the hem, attempting to extend the dress’s length in her mirror to no avail. Every time she gazed at her reflection, she half-expected to see the woman she used to be, the one who wore clothes straight off the designer racks. That version of her vanished the night Hector ripped their lives apart.

She checked the time. Shit. I’m going to be late.

Darting for her shoes, she stopped mid-step. Wilted flowers in the window caught her eye. Their petals, once vibrant, now curled inward with brown, brittle edges. She reached out, running a finger over the crumbling stem. Just like her father’s presence in the estate, they disintegrated a little more each day.

The air in the room thickened, weighing down on her chest. Rafael’s voice echoed in the back of her mind, reminding her of the day he brought her the flowers. He had laughed and danced into her room with the bouquet, stuffing it in the vase. “Beautiful flowers for my beautiful daughter,” he said, kissing her forehead. Now the house was silent, and the walls were heavy with his absence.

She forced herself to breathe and shoved her feet into her shoes. She needed to focus, or she’d miss lineup entirely. The last thing she wanted was to spend a week scrubbing pots and pans because she couldn’t fall in line with the expectations placed on her.

Skirting the edges of the house, she peeked cautiously around corners in hopes of avoiding Eva. The mere sight of her former acquaintance caused the feral part of Araceli to beat at the cage in her chest, demanding to be released.

“Excuse me!” she fussed, dodging vendors scampering about as they set up for Eva’s big El Día de los Muertos party.

“You get out of our way, Araceli. You’re not in charge anymore. Learn your place with the rest of us,” an older staff member sneered, while a couple others grunted.

Her cold, piercing eyes cut towards him as she passed. “Keep it up and I won’t channel any of your messages once you cross over to the land of the dead, and if you keep treating people like that, it probably won’t be much longer!”

His mouth pressed into a firm line, but he remained quiet, and the corner of Araceli’s lip turned upward. She’d won that round.

Keeping her pace, a buzz pulsed against her temple the way a bee’s nest swarmed. She swatted at the space in front of her to clear the frequency of the afterlife. It wasn’t time yet. They needed to be patient.

And while the community enjoys the holiday, I’ll be holed up in my room dealing with incessant pestering from the ancestors. Gift, my ass.

The rows of matching uniforms appeared in front of her, and Sylvia waved her over, pointing at the ground reminiscent of the old nuns who reprimanded her in class. Araceli’s steps quickened and she slid into the lineup seconds before the head caretaker turned with his clipboard.

Sylvia huffed and Araceli sighed, clasping her hands neatly behind her back to wait for her assignment. Without warning, a tingling sensation nipped at her. Ay, Dios! The ancestors are persistent this year.

But this time she recognized the spirit. It was her Aunt Mariela trying to push through the veil with all the gossip from beyond the grave.

“Not now, Mariela!” she muttered while el mayordomo doled out orders.

The look in the head caretaker’s eyes warned her to watch her behavior, and she tried to maintain her composure by keeping rigid posture and her face forward. Even though no one else could see Mariela’s pestering, it wouldn’t be an excuse to be a distraction.

She kept her eyes to the ground, watching the flattened blades of grass beneath el mayordomo’s feet take shape again as he walked towards her, focusing on keeping the connection closed.

“Araceli, you’ll work on decorating the foyer with Sylvia today.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, making her way inside with the other woman.

“Listen,” Sylvia said sharply. “You need to show up earlier and stop being disruptive. I know this work is new to you, but the rest of the staff won’t tolerate it much longer.”

Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice. “They’ll only give you grace for so long. They don’t care that your father was a famous fútbol player or that the whole town treats you like a deity during El Día de los Muertos. Here, you’re just another servant.”

“I know. I’m trying, I swear,” Araceli whimpered.

Opening the heavy front door, a mess of colorful decorations cluttering the floor greeted them. The staff carefully maneuvered around the overflowing boxes and totes in the space.

She worked methodically alongside Sylvia, arranging the ocean of auburn, crimson, and violet flowers around calaveras and flickering candles. The melting wax cast dancing shadows across every surface, creating the perfect atmosphere to honor the ancestors. Each skull represented the circle of life.

Unrolling the classic orange floral garland, she made her way to the banister of the grand staircase. Footsteps echoed from above. Eva De Nava began her descent, and Araceli stiffened, trapped like a mouse in a maze with nowhere to hide.

“Ah, Araceli,” Eva began, her voice like silk-wrapped poison. “When you’re done here, I need you to iron my dress for your father’s funeral. I can’t show up to such a sad event in wrinkled attire.” She drew out each syllable for effect. “I’m sure you agree.”

Heat flooded Araceli’s face. The cruelty of mentioning her father’s funeral so casually made something wild and untamed rear up inside her chest. Her hands trembled as she gripped the garland tighter, imagining how satisfying it would be to wrap the flowers around Eva’s throat instead of the banister.

She forced her lips into what she hoped resembled a smile, though she was certain it appeared more like baring teeth. Every instinct screamed at her to unleash the fury building behind her ribs, but Araceli played the long game. Eva’s time would come.