It was a performance—and she was meant to be the joke.
That night, in her small apartment in Iztapalapa, her roommate Sofía examined the card under the kitchen light. Sofía worked long hours as a line cook and had learned to recognize trouble quickly.
“This makes no sense,” she said flatly. “Why would he invite you?”
Patricia shrugged, though her chest felt tight. “Maybe he’s just… being nice.”
Sofía snorted, humorless. “Sebastián Vargas doesn’t do ‘nice.’ My aunt worked for his mother. He treats staff like decorations. And when he gets bored… he likes breaking things.”
Patricia felt a chill crawl up her spine. “So why do this?”
Sofía met her eyes. “Because he wants to embarrass you. He wants you to show up in something you can barely afford, so people can stare, judge, whisper. So he can laugh and feel powerful.”
The envelope lay between them like a challenge.
“Then I just won’t go,” Patricia said quietly.
Sofía reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Or,” she said slowly, “you go—and you rewrite the ending.”
