You almost pitied him then. Almost. All those months of condescension. All those little explanations about how the world worked. All those smug references to your lack of breeding, polish, family, options. And now the world was peeling back to reveal that he had spent two years insulting the heir to fortunes he would never be invited near again.
“Yes,” your father said. “My daughter.”
Camila looked at you as if seeing a hidden panel slide open in the wall.
“No,” Diego said weakly. “No, that’s impossible. She said she had no one.”
“I said very little,” you replied. “You filled in the rest.”
That hit him harder than the documents.
Because it was true. You had never lied to him directly. You had simply not corrected the story he loved best. The orphan. The waitress. The grateful, ordinary woman he imagined would cling to him because he had chosen her. He built the illusion himself, then moved into it with designer luggage.
Alejandro rested both hands on the table.
“You offered my daughter two hundred thousand pesos and an old Nissan as compensation for public humiliation, emotional fraud, and strategic adultery carried out while planning a market debut. That was unwise.”
Diego tried to recover posture. “With respect, sir, whatever your relationship is to Isabella, she signed a prenuptial agreement.”
“She did.”
“And the divorce is complete.”
