Mariana bent down to pick up the bills not because she needed them, but because she refused to let something so ugly disturb something so carefully maintained. The marble floor beneath her knees reflected the chandelier light like still water, and for a fleeting moment she saw her own reflection there—older, quieter, steadier than the woman she had once been. She smoothed the bills between her fingers, stacked them neatly, and placed them on the edge of the trash can with a precision that felt almost ceremonial. Her voice, when she spoke, carried no tremor. “You should keep them,” she said softly.

“That money… you’re going to need it.” Alejandro froze, the words striking him harder than any slap. He had expected anger, bitterness, maybe even tears. He had prepared himself for guilt, for defensiveness, for the familiar dynamic where he held the upper hand. But this calm—this absolute absence of need—left him unbalanced. His jaw tightened, and pride rushed in to fill the sudden void of power. “Are you still acting so self-important?” he snapped, turning sharply toward Camila as if seeking an ally.