Teresa inhales sharply.
Verónica mutters, “There it is,” under her breath.
Ximena straightens in her chair. “No. That can’t be right. Esteban said the apartment was free and clear.”
You almost pity her.
Almost.
Because you know the exact tone he would have used when saying it. Calm. Slightly amused. Masculine certainty with a trace of indulgence, as if the mere question of risk were a little provincial. Esteban could make a disaster sound like a strategy if he had cufflinks on.
“He lied,” you say.
The words are not loud.
But they slice the room open.
Ximena turns toward you with real anger for the first time. Not disdain. Not smugness. Anger born from instability. “No,” she snaps. “You’re doing this because he chose me.”
A lesser version of yourself might have taken the bait.
