Valeria noticed the silence before she noticed the history.
“Who is that?” she asked, her voice light and possessive.
You couldn’t resist the moment. It arrived gift-wrapped in irony. The woman you had discarded was now holding a rag beside a million-dollar gown. The universe had placed her there like a punchline and you, foolishly, thought it was written for your amusement.
“This,” you said, with a thin smile, “is my ex-wife.”
Valeria’s brows lifted. She looked Mariana up and down, slow and cruel. “Your ex-wife?”
Mariana gave a small nod. “Hello, Alejandro.”
She didn’t sound broken. That irritated you at once.
Behind the glass stood the gown everyone in the city had been whispering about for a week. Fire Phoenix. A one-of-one couture piece shipped under private security, embroidered by hand, studded with rubies and antique crimson stones. It clung to the mannequin with the sort of beauty that made people step closer without realizing they were moving. Mariana was looking at it with quiet concentration, almost reverently, and something about that offended you.
“You like it?” you asked.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It has discipline. It knows exactly what it is.”
