I took the money.
And I vanished from their world as if I had never existed.
Five years passed.
That night, the De la Vega family hosted what the media called the wedding of the century at the Four Seasons in Mexico City. The ballroom shimmered with wealth—crystal chandeliers, white lilies, and an air thick with power.
Then I walked in.
My heels echoed across the marble floor—slow, steady, deliberate.
Behind me walked four children.
Four identical children.
Four unmistakable reflections of the man standing at the altar.
In my hand, I didn’t carry an invitation.
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