“Verónica!” Teresa snaps again, but now even her outrage sounds tired.
Ximena looks at you then with naked accusation.
“You knew.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“Yes.”
She laughs once, disbelievingly. “And you let me sit here.”
“No,” you say. “You rushed to sit there.”
That is the truth no one in the room can escape.
You did not lure her.
You did not fabricate.
You did not trap an innocent woman.
Ximena came hungry. She came dressed for victory. She came ready to inherit another woman’s place because she believed the title itself carried luxury. She never once paused to ask why a man truly drowning in grand romantic certainty kept postponing divorce, postponing “the right moment,” postponing transparency. She thought delay meant complexity. It actually meant insolvency.
