The crystal glasses were still trembling when silence swallowed the hall. Fifty elegant guests turned at once toward the sight no one could explain: little Matías, the two-year-old son of billionaire hotel magnate Rodrigo Santillán, sprinting across the marble floor with tear-streaked cheeks—straight into the arms of the maid.
“Mommy!” he cried.
The word hit the room like an explosion.
Guests froze. A child who hadn’t spoken a single word since his mother’s death had just broken his silence—and he was clinging to a woman in a gray uniform with a mop still in hand.
Valeria didn’t move. Matías wrapped himself around her as if the world were falling apart, repeating “Ma…ma…” while she felt her heart sink. Every stare felt like a spotlight, every whisper a threat. She knew that if she wasn’t careful, everything she’d built—her false identity, her refuge, the fragile safety she’d carved out—could collapse instantly.
Rodrigo’s mother gasped. Rodrigo himself lowered his champagne in shock. And beside him, Patricia Velasco—his flawless, ambitious fiancée—went pale with anger.
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