Valeria walked through the room with Alejandro beside her. Every head turned. Nobody dared stop them.
At the main table, a cake taller than a child waited beneath sugar flowers.
On top, two porcelain figures stood hand in hand.
The bride smiled.
The groom smiled.
Valeria stared at them.
Then she laughed.
It escaped before she could stop it, quiet at first, then fuller, stranger, almost wild.
Alejandro looked at her carefully.
“Valeria.”
“I’m fine,” she said, wiping one tear from the corner of her eye. “I just realized something.”
“What?”
“I spent a year thinking I was the abandoned woman in their love story.”
She looked around the ruined hall.
“But I was the bank.”
Alejandro’s lips curved slightly.
“An expensive role.”
She laughed again, but this time the sound softened into exhaustion.
A waiter approached nervously.
“Señorita… should we serve dinner?”
Valeria looked at the untouched tables.
Then at the guests pretending not to listen.
Then at Camila, who had collapsed into a chair near the entrance, surrounded by bridesmaids who no longer seemed eager to be photographed with her.
“Yes,” Valeria said.
The waiter blinked.
“Yes?”
“Serve dinner.”
Alejandro studied her.
Valeria lifted her chin.
“They came for a wedding. They can stay for the funeral.”
The waiter fled to obey.
Within minutes, food moved through the room. Plates landed. Wine poured. Nobody knew whether they were allowed to eat, but hunger and scandal were powerful forces.
The reception continued without music.
It was worse that way.
Every fork against porcelain sounded like judgment.