An hour crawled by, and I sat alone at our table, my fingers curled around a half-empty glass of wine. Across the grand ballroom, Marco was twirling Natalia under the chandelier’s light — a dazzling display of charm and deceit. They looked like a magazine spread from hell, the kind of image that ruined people quietly.
I took another sip, the taste sharp against my tongue. But behind my eyes, I saw Mateo. His laughter echoed — that sweet, airy giggle that once filled our kitchen. I could still see him there, barefoot on the tiles, frosting smeared across his cheeks as he proudly showed me his messy cupcakes.
“Mama, look what I made!”
My chest tightened.
I swear to you, Mateo, I thought, I’ll make them pay for everything. But first, I have to walk out of this prison alive.
“Another glass, Mrs. Cortez?” The waiter leaned closer, bottle in hand. I nodded absently — but Marco noticed.
From the dance floor, he froze mid-step, his hand dropping from Natalia’s waist. His stare cut through the crowd and locked on me. It wasn’t love in his eyes — it was ownership. Fury. Fire.
Within moments, he was crossing the marble floor, abandoning Natalia without a glance. His grip closed around my arm, hard enough to bruise.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re my wife, not some spoiled brat flirting with the help.”
I slipped my arm free and met his glare evenly. “Maybe if you’d remembered I was your wife before tonight, we wouldn’t be here.”
Then I turned on my heel and walked off, my pulse steady but burning with rage.
I pushed into the powder room, closing the door behind me. The silence was heavy, broken only by my shallow breathing — until it wasn’t.
The door creaked open again. Natalia stepped in, shutting it quietly behind her.
“Well, if it isn’t the queen of ruins,” she said sweetly, her voice dripping with mock pity. “Still pretending anyone in that room listens to you?”
I didn’t answer.
She smirked, eyes glinting. “You couldn’t even protect your own child. What kind of mother lets her son die like that?”
My hand twitched at my side.
“He was, what… six?” she continued, her tone almost playful. “He must’ve screamed when the timer started. Did he call for you? Did he beg you to save him?”
That was it. The last crack in my restraint. I lunged — but before my hand even connected, she moved faster.
Natalia slapped herself. Hard. Then again, leaving red streaks on her own face. She clawed at her collarbone, dragged her fingers down her neck, then flung herself against the sink with a scream that could split glass.
“Help! Somebody help!” she shrieked. “Isabella’s gone mad!”
The door burst open moments later, but she was already halfway out, sobbing hysterically.
When I stepped out behind her, chaos had already bloomed. Natalia was on the ballroom floor, tears streaking her ruined makeup, the red marks on her skin glowing under the lights. She looked like a victim straight out of a crime scene.
Marco reached her first, catching her before she fell. “What happened?” he demanded, his voice sharp, panicked.
“She—she attacked me!” Natalia gasped between sobs, clutching his jacket. “She slammed me into the mirror! Look at my face!”
Marco’s expression darkened, jaw tightening. “Smith! Take Isabella out of here. Now.”
Two of his men stormed in, seizing me by the arms. I didn’t struggle. There was no point. My heels scraped against the marble as they dragged me forward.
Every head turned. Every whisper grew.
The music had died, replaced by murmurs and gasps. Some guests looked scandalized; others watched with a hunger for gossip. Even those pretending to ignore it couldn’t look away.
Natalia lay trembling in her mother’s arms, her sobs pitifully rehearsed.
“My poor baby!” her mother cried dramatically. “What kind of monster would do this?”
Her father shook his head, voice booming for everyone to hear. “She’s suffered enough! Always too forgiving. Too kind.”
Marco’s grandmother strode forward, her face twisted with disgust.
“Disgraceful!” she spat. “You humiliate this family before our allies — on our anniversary, no less! You’ve shamed our name beyond repair!”
Then came Marco’s grandfather, striking his cane hard against the marble floor.
“I’ve tolerated your coldness long enough,” he roared. “But this? Hurting an innocent guest? You’re done, Isabella. You are no longer one of us!”
I lifted my head slowly, heart hammering, chest tight. Then I snapped.
“Innocent?” My voice cracked through the silence like lightning. “You want to talk about innocent?”
I turned straight to Marco, my eyes blazing. “She’s the reason Mateo’s dead.”
The entire room froze. The silence was suffocating — heavy, unbreathing. Even the musicians had stopped moving.
“She told you he wasn’t yours,” I continued, trembling but unbroken. “She poisoned you against your own son. She despised him. And now he’s gone because of her.”
Marco’s brow furrowed, confusion warring with disbelief.
Then Natalia struck again, voice slicing through the air. “She’s lying! I saw Mateo earlier today!” she cried. “He was fine — running around a friend’s house! She’s gone insane! She’s saying her son is dead just to make me look guilty!”
She turned to the crowd, tears streaming. “Look at what she did to me! Look at my face! This woman needs help!”
That was all it took.
Marco’s rage erupted. He stormed toward me, and I didn’t move.
The first slap came hard and fast.
Smack.
Then another.
Smack.
By the third, my head snapped sideways. The fourth blurred my vision.
The fifth sent me crumbling to the marble floor.
Blood filled my mouth, my cheek blazing with heat. I barely caught myself with one trembling hand, eyes fixed on the polished floor as Marco lifted Natalia into his arms and carried her out.
Applause. Whispers. Disgust. Pity. I couldn’t tell anymore.
I stayed where I fell.
+++
I don’t remember leaving the hall. One moment I was lying on cold marble, and the next, I was staring at the ceiling of our bedroom. My face throbbed, my lip split open. But none of it matched the ache hollowing my chest.
That night marked the end. The last time I shed tears for Marco Cortez.
Just one tear. One breath. That was all he’d ever get from me again.
Then my phone rang.
I almost ignored it — until I saw the unknown number.
“Hello?” I murmured.
A man’s voice, polite but cheerful, answered. “Good evening. Am I speaking to Miss Isabella Reyes Cortez?”
“…Yes.”
“Wonderful! Your father will be thrilled to hear this.”
My heart stopped. “My father?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said warmly. “I’m his lawyer and personal secretary. He’s been searching for you for years. We finally found you.”
My lips parted, but no sound came out.
“When you’re ready, Miss Isabella,” he continued, “I’ll send you his number and address. He’s been waiting a long time to see you.”
The line disconnected, and I just sat there — phone still in hand, pulse racing.
For the first time in years, something deep inside me stirred again.
Not grief. Not pain.
Hope.
