You watched his face as you read it.
That was when your anger shifted.
Until then, you had thought Renata was only the other woman. Pretty, selfish, cruel, but distant. Now you saw her as something worse: a woman who had been loved safely and called it boredom.
You whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Julián closed the folder.
“Me too.”
The next week, the invitation arrived.
Esteban’s company anniversary party.
Black tie.
Luxury hotel ballroom.
Executives, investors, department heads, spouses, cameras, speeches, champagne.
Esteban left the invitation on the kitchen counter like a test.
“You should wear something simple,” he said while adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror. “Nothing too dramatic. These people are important.”
You stood behind him, watching the man who had lied to your face for months ask you to help decorate his reputation.
“What color do you think?” you asked.
He barely glanced at you.
“Black is fine.”
Black.
Safe.
Quiet.
Forgettable.
You thought of the red dress hanging in the back of your closet, the one you bought two years earlier and never wore because Esteban said it was “too much.” You remembered how he had looked at you when you tried it on, not with desire, but with irritation, as if your confidence had offended him.
