On the back, someone had written:
You were happy once. Don’t forget that part.
I knew the handwriting.
Lidia.
For a long moment, I stared at the photo.
Then I placed it face down on the table.
Not because it meant nothing.
Because it had meant something once.
And that was exactly why it could no longer stay.
That evening, I walked to the balcony and watched the city lights flicker on one by one.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Victor.
Mauricio wants to negotiate.
I typed back:
Then he can start by telling the truth.
Three dots appeared.
Then Victor replied:
He says he has one truth left.
I stared at the screen.
For the first time in months, my pulse shifted.
Not with fear.
With curiosity.
Another message came.
He says it concerns your father’s trust.
The city suddenly felt colder.
My father had created the trust before he died.
He had protected me in ways I was still discovering.
Mauricio should have known nothing about it beyond the mansion.
Nothing.
I called Victor immediately.
“What does he know?”
Victor’s voice was careful.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Is he lying?”
“Probably.”
“But?”
Victor paused.
“But he gave us a name.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What name?”
Victor exhaled.
“Lidia.”
I turned slowly toward the photograph lying face down on my table.
And for the first time since Mauricio came home to find the mansion gone, I understood something terrifying.
The marriage had been a betrayal.
The money had been a betrayal.
The wedding had been a betrayal.
