And they were there.
Doña Pura sat enthroned in the center, adorned with gold jewelry that caught the light with every movement, a glass in her hand, as if she were at home. Celia, leaning against her husband, a designer bag on her arm, tapped the rim of her glass with her manicured nails. Her younger brother, Rodrigo, laughed heartily, sporting a watch that Damián immediately recognized: a limited edition, with an exorbitant price tag.
They all looked… at ease.
Too comfortable.
At first, nobody noticed Damián.
He remained there, the dust of the road still stuck to his shoes, the heavy velvet box in his pocket, while the realization began to settle like a stone in his chest.
It was not a warm welcome.
It was a party.
And suddenly, the silence he expected to hear—from Lupita—seemed more deafening than the music.
“To Damian’s delivery!” Rodrigo exclaimed, raising his glass.
Everyone laughed.
Damian, hidden behind a large vase, searched for Lupita. He expected to see her in the center of the room, like the lady of the house. But she wasn’t there. He searched the living room, the first floor, the master bedroom. Nothing.
She went to the kitchen. No luck there either. Only the catering staff were there.
“Excuse me,” he asked a waiter. “Where is Lupita, the owner of the house?”
The waiter, mistaking him for a c
