His son stepped out first—confident, proud, hopeful. Then Sofía emerged.
She was stunning. An emerald designer dress clung to her like it had been tailored for this exact moment. Diamonds caught the light. Her smile was polished, rehearsed. She took Alejandro’s arm without hesitation, as if stepping into a role she had long prepared for.
They passed Don Ricardo.
Sofía didn’t see him.
Or rather—she saw him exactly as she believed he was: nothing.
No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just a fleeting look of irritation at the presence of “staff” in her path, before her attention snapped back to the red carpet and the world she felt entitled to.
Inside, Don Ricardo followed at a distance, his pulse steady, his mind sharp. He waited.
At their table—one of the best in the restaurant, overlooking the city—Alejandro thanked the maître d’ warmly. Sofía sat down with practiced elegance, inspecting the view like it belonged to her.
That was the moment.
Don Ricardo approached with a tray, playing the role perfectly. As he stepped beside Sofía to adjust her chair, he stumbled—just enough.
The dark soda tipped.
A few drops splashed onto the edge of her designer handbag.
Time slowed.
The bag. Limited edition. Worth more than most people earned in a year.
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