“There are outstanding debts,” Beltrán says carefully.
Ximena waves a hand. “Everyone has some debt. Mortgages, taxes, whatever. It’s normal.”
Beltrán does not look up. “Not like this.”
Silence.
That is the beautiful thing about numbers. They don’t care about lipstick or youth or fantasies about being chosen. They sit there, cold and rectangular, until someone has to absorb them.
You remember the first time you sensed the shape of Esteban’s financial rot.
It was five years ago, the week after your sixteenth anniversary.
He came home with a Cartier bracelet for you and a bottle of champagne and that look on his face, the one that meant he needed forgiveness for something not yet named. You had learned to spot it the way old sailors spot weather pressure. Subtle. Charming. Dangerous.
