And there they were.
Doña Pura stood at the center, draped in gold jewelry that caught the light with every movement, holding a glass as if she owned the place. Celia leaned against her husband, designer bag on her arm, manicured nails tapping the rim of her drink. His younger brother Rodrigo laughed loudly, wearing a watch Damián immediately recognized—limited edition, outrageously expensive.
They all looked… comfortable.
Too comfortable.
No one noticed Damián at first.
He stood there, dust from the road still clinging to his shoes, the velvet box heavy in his pocket, as realization began to settle like a stone in his chest.
This wasn’t a welcome.
This was a celebration.
And suddenly, the silence he expected to hear—from Lupita—felt louder than the music.
“Cheers to Damian’s shipment!” Rodrigo shouted, raising his glass.
Everyone laughed.
