That night, at her parents’ home in the Del Valle neighborhood, Valeria walked in and found Camila seated beside Mauricio, calmly drinking coffee with her mother, Doña Beatriz, as though nothing had happened at all.
“Don’t make a drama out of this, mija,” her mother said with a careless wave of dismissal. “Camila is young, beautiful, and has opportunities ahead of her. You’ve always been the strong one. You can handle this.”
Valeria did not scream. She did not throw anything. She simply took off the engagement ring in front of all of them, slammed it onto the table, and walked out with fire burning in her throat.
For weeks afterward, she ignored messages. She buried herself in work, silence, and humiliation.
Then the invitation came.
The wedding would take place at an elegant hacienda in Valle de Bravo, with three hundred guests, mariachis, fireworks, and a private mass.
Her mother sent a voice note: “Valeria, please attend. People will gossip if you’re not there. Besides, it’s time to get over it, mija.”
That evening, Valeria left her apartment without knowing where she was going. Somehow, she ended up in the bar of a luxury hotel on Reforma, dressed in a simple black dress, her eyes full of tears she refused to let fall.
She ordered mezcal.
She had not even lifted the glass when a man in a blue suit walked up to her table.
“Hey, doll, mind moving?” he said with a smug little smirk. “I need this table for some important people. You can go sit over there, out of the way.”
