Everything felt peaceful.

Until a white Tesla rolled up and stopped right at the entrance.

Conversations faltered. Heads turned.

A tall woman stepped out, confident, polished—tailored suit, designer heels, a perfume so expensive it announced her presence before she spoke. She moved like someone who had never been afraid of consequences.

Then I saw her face.

Camila.

My breath locked in my chest. The world narrowed to a ringing in my ears. Around me, guests whispered, confused, curious. I couldn’t move.

She smiled—warm, effortless—as if the last three years hadn’t happened. As if she hadn’t shattered something in me and walked away.

Without hesitation, she came straight toward me and pressed a thick, cream-colored envelope into my hand.

And in that moment, standing under wedding flowers with my heart pounding, I knew whatever was inside that envelope was about to reopen a wound I thought had finally scarred over.

“Congratulations, Mariana,” he whispered. “It’s the most important day of your life.”

Everyone was watching us. The envelope was heavy. It was sealed with gold wax. My hands trembled as I opened it.

There was no money.
There was no check.

Just a folded sheet of paper.

I thought they were apologies.
They weren’t.

It was a letter written in her handwriting, the same handwriting we used to make grocery lists and write down dreams in college.

“Mariana, I know you hate me. And you have every reason to. But before you judge me, you need to know the truth.”

I swallowed hard. The room fell silent. Daniel took my hand, but I barely felt it.

“Three years ago I didn’t lie to you: my father was very ill. But what I didn’t tell you is that I was also involved in something that was beyond my control. The company where I worked was laundering money. When I tried to report it, they threatened me.”

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