Isabel could have lied.
Instead, she said, “Maybe a little. But telling the truth can feel sad and still be right.”
The children accepted this with the strange wisdom of those raised in honesty.
On the day of Rodrigo and Camila’s wedding, the Salvatierra estate looked like a magazine cover. White roses climbed the archway. Crystal glasses caught the afternoon sun. Guests arrived in silk, linen, pearls, and practiced smiles. Rodrigo stood near the altar in a black tuxedo, handsome and tense. Camila looked stunning in a fitted ivory gown, though her smile kept flickering whenever Rebeca whispered instructions.
Doña Rebeca moved through the crowd like a queen returning from exile. She wore champagne silk and a pearl rosary wrapped around her wrist. Every detail of the event announced the message she wanted society to receive: the Salvatierra family had survived scandal, replaced weakness, and restored order.
Then Don Ernesto arrived.
The murmur began at the back of the garden.
Some guests recognized him immediately. Others only knew the name from old business stories. Rebeca turned and went white.
He wore a dark suit and carried a cane he did not need. Beside him walked Marta Luján with a leather folder. Behind them came Isabel.
Not in white.
Not in black.
She wore a deep blue dress, simple and elegant, her hair pinned back, her face calm. She held Daniel’s hand. Emilia walked on her other side holding a white envelope. Mateo carried a small wooden box containing the baby shoes Ernesto had saved from the hospital. Daniel held an old ultrasound photo because he had insisted it looked like “three little beans in a storm.”
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