An hour before the wedding, I, María Elena , stood alone in the hotel’s side corridor, trying to calm my nerves. The white dress was tight around my chest, and the distant noise of the guests sounded like a constant hum. It was then that I heard voices behind the door of the small room, the one they used to store gifts. I immediately recognized the voice of Javier , my fiancé, and that of his mother, Carmen . I didn’t want to listen, but my feet froze on the floor.
“I don’t care about her,” Javier said in a harsh whisper. “All I want is her money. After the wedding, everything will be easier.”
I felt like I was losing my breath. Carmen replied with a short, satisfied laugh:
“I told you, son. Hang in there a little longer. His inheritance, his father’s company… it will all stay in the right family.”
I covered my mouth to keep from crying out loud. We’ve been together for four years. I’d lost my father two years earlier and inherited a small family business. I always thought Javier loved me for who I was, not for what I had. In that instant, every memory became suspicious: his rush to get married, his sudden interest in my accounts, his “innocent” questions about legal documents.
