The Moreira mansion stood imposingly on Pine Hill, Valmont's most exclusive neighborhood. Every lit window seemed to watch me with disdain as I climbed the marble steps that, six years ago, I had descended for the last time with a suitcase in hand and a dream in my heart.
"I'm going to prove to them," I had thought that day. "I'm going to prove that I can build my own life, that I don't need the Moreira name to be happy."
What an idiot I was.
My hand trembled as I pressed the doorbell. The sound echoed from the other side of the solid mahogany door, and seconds later, Margareth, the housekeeper who had known me since childhood, opened the door.
Her eyes widened when she saw me.
"Miss Elena?" Her voice was a shocked whisper. "But what... I thought you were at your rehearsal for..."
"May I come in?" I interrupted, before she could finish her sentence. Before I had to explain the inexplicable. She hesitated for a brief second, then opened the door fully.
"Your father is in the office. Business meeting. And Ms. Monica is in the living room with..." She stopped abruptly, biting her lip.
"With whom?" I pressed, but something in my stomach already knew the answer.
"You'd better see for yourself, miss."
I walked through the entrance hall, my footsteps echoing on the Italian marble floor. Everything there screamed wealth, power, status. Everything I had given up for love. Everything I had been taught to despise as "superficial" and "empty."
But Rafael never looked down when he needed seed money for his company. He never looked down when my father—even with our chilly relationship—offered valuable contacts. He never looked down when the Moreira surname opened doors he would never have walked alone.
The main hall was lit, and I could hear voices before I even reached the door. I took a deep breath, preparing to face my stepmother, Monica, the woman who had made my life hell after my mother's death.
But when I walked in, all the words I had prepared died in my throat.
Sofia was there.
She was sitting on the crimson velvet sofa, radiant in a designer dress that probably cost more than three months' rent. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup impeccable, and there was no sign of the "terminal illness" that supposedly doomed her.
And beside her, serving her tea on fine china, was Monica, my stepmother, smiling with maternal pride.
"Elena!" Monica's voice was sugary, but her eyes remained as cold as ever. "What a surprise! I thought you were busy with the final wedding preparations."
Sofia turned to me, and for the first time since I arrived, her smile faltered. But only for a second. Quickly, she composed herself into an expression of wounded innocence. "Elena... I can explain..."
"Can you?" My voice came out harsher than I intended. "Can you explain how you're here, perfectly healthy, while stealing my fiancé?"
Monica stood up abruptly, her teacup clinking on its saucer.
"How dare you speak to your sister like that? Sofia is sick, she..."
"Sick?" I laughed, a humorless sound that echoed through the room. "Look at her! She's radiant! Perfect! There's nothing wrong with her!"
"The symptoms come and go," Monica replied coldly. "You know nothing about her condition. You don't know how much she's been suffering."
"Suffering?" I took a step forward, anger boiling in my veins. "She's stealing my wedding! My fiancé! And you're here, serving her tea, as if that were completely normal!"
"Don't be dramatic, Elena." Monica crossed her arms, her posture regal and intimidating. "Sofia made a simple request." A final wish from a young woman facing death. Rafael, like the gentleman he is, agreed to grant her this gift.
"And me?" My voice broke, and I hated the weakness seeping into it. "And what do I feel? Six years, Monica. Six years by his side, building a life..."
"A mediocre life in a third-rate apartment." Monica's words cut like blades. "Working humiliating jobs, debasing yourself, while pretending to be someone you're not."
"I did it for love!"
"You did it for pride." She stepped closer, her high heels clicking against the marble. "You wanted to prove you didn't need us, that you could survive on your own. And look what that led to. A fiancé who leaves you for your younger sister."
Each word was a direct blow, calculated to wound.
"Sofia, please..." I tried to appeal to my stepsister, who had remained silent throughout the argument. "Do you really have to do this? You can have any man you want, why Rafael?"
For the first time, Sofia spoke, and her voice was far from the sickly fragility Rafael had described.
"Because he loves me." Simple. Direct. Devastating. "Always has. You were just... convenient." He needed stability, someone to support him as he built his empire. But now that he's established himself, now that he no longer needs a woman to work like a slave to support his dreams…" She smiled, and it was the cruelest smile I'd ever seen. "Now he can choose who he truly desires."
The world spun around me. Every word Sofia said echoed in my mind, fitting perfectly with the little things I'd ignored over the years. The times Rafael asked us not to go out in public. The times he "forgot" to introduce me as his fiancée. The messages he quickly deleted when I entered the room.
"No…" I whispered. "No, he said he loved me. He…"
"He said what you wanted to hear." Sofia stood, walking toward me with the grace of a predator. "Because you were useful. Not anymore." Before I could respond, before I could process the magnitude of the betrayal, the office door opened and my father, Augusto Moreira, entered the room.
He was an imposing man, even at sixty-five. Perfectly combed gray hair, a tailored suit, a posture that commanded immediate respect. He looked at me with those cold gray eyes I'd inherited from him, and for a moment—just a brief moment—I thought I saw something beyond his usual indifference.
"Elena." His voice was neutral. "I heard your voice from the office. I assumed there was a problem."
"A problem?" I choked on the words. "Dad, Sofia is taking my wedding! She and Rafael are getting married tomorrow, on the day that should be mine, and—"
"I know." He cut me off, just like that. "Rafael called me an hour ago. He explained the situation."
The ground disappeared beneath my feet.
"You... knew?"
"It's a delicate situation." My father walked to the bar, pouring himself a whiskey as if we were discussing the weather. "Sofia is sick. Rafael agreed to help her. It's a noble act."
"Noble?" I could hardly believe what I was hearing. "And me? I don't matter? My feelings don't matter?" He took a slow sip before answering.
"You made your choice six years ago, Elena. You chose to leave this house, reject your surname, live like a commoner with a man who barely had a chance to die." His eyes finally met mine, and they were as cold as ice. "You can't expect everyone to adjust their lives to your poor choices now."
Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
"I am your daughter..."
"You were my daughter." The correction was brutal. "Until you decided you preferred a fairytale love to your own family. Monica and Sofia are my family now." And I won't allow you to ruin a dying young woman's last wish because of your selfishness.
Selfishness. That word again.
"So that's it?" My voice was empty now, drained of all emotion. "You're going to let her marry him? On my wedding day?"
"There's no more of your wedding, Elena," Monica interjected, her voice sweet as poison. "Rafael made that very clear. He chose Sofia."
"He said he'd come back for me later!" The words came out in a desperate cry. "He said it was just to give her this experience, and then we'd go back..."
Sofia laughed. Really laughed, a clear, genuinely amused sound.
"Oh, Elena. Do you really believe that?" She shook her head, almost pityingly. "He's not coming back. Why would he? After he has me, after he's experienced what it's like to be with someone of your true caliber..."
"Enough." My father's voice cut through the air. "Sofia, this is unnecessary."
But the damage was done. I could see it now. See it all with crystal clarity. It wasn't just Rafael. It wasn't just Sofia. It was all of them. My own family, working together to destroy me.
"Why?" I whispered, looking at my father. "Why do you hate me so much?"
For a moment, something flashed in his eyes. Regret? Guilt? But it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
"I don't hate you, Elena." He finished his whiskey. "I just don't see why I should prioritize your feelings over Sofia's. She's obedient. She values family. You—"
"I did too!" I exploded. "I loved you! I loved this family! But you... you've treated me like dirt since Mom died! Monica humiliated me every day, Sofia got everything while I got nothing, and you... you just watched!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Finally, my father placed the empty glass on the tray and turned to me.
"If you feel so mistreated, no one is asking you to stay." His words were spoken with casual indifference. "The door is open. As it always has been."
It was a dismissal. Clear and simple.
"So that's it?" I looked around, at each of them. "Are you going to kick me out? Again?"
"No one is kicking you out." Monica crossed her arms. "You just never really belonged here. Not after throwing everything away for a cheap romance novel."
"And my trust fund?" The question was out before I could think better of it. "My mother's inheritance?"
Monica's smile was triumphant.
"It was reassigned. To Sofia. Your father signed the documents last week."
All hell broke loose.
"That's illegal!" I screamed. "My mother left that to me!" "And you have every right to challenge it in court." My father grabbed his briefcase, ready to leave. "But I suggest you consult a lawyer first. Oh, wait. You can't afford one, can you?"
It was the final blow. Calculated. Cruel. Perfect.
They had taken everything. My fiancé. My marriage. My family. My money. Everything.
"Elena..." Sofia leaned closer, and for the first time, her voice held something that could be considered kindness. But I knew better. "It doesn't have to be this way. If you accept graciously, if you come to the wedding tomorrow and show your support, I'm sure Dad will reconsider the fund..."
"Never." The word came out like a sharp knife. "I'd rather die."
"Your choice." Monica shrugged. "But I suggest you don't cause a scene. Rafael is a respected businessman now. He doesn't need a hysterical ex-fiancée ruining his reputation."
"Ex-fiancée." I repeated the words, letting them sink in. "Is this how you're going to tell the story? That I'm the crazy one who couldn't accept her sister's illness?"
No one answered. But the smiles on Monica and Sofia's faces said it all.
I turned to leave, but my father's voice stopped me.
"Elena."
I looked back, a last spark of idiotic hope still burning in my chest. Maybe he would say something. Maybe he would defend me, tell me I was wrong, that...
"Leave the house keys on the tray. You don't live here anymore."
The hope died.
I picked up the old keys—the ones my mother had given me when I was a child, saying "this will always be your home"—and dropped them onto the silver tray with a final clink.
I left that mansion for the second time in my life. But this time, I knew I would never return.
Night had completely fallen over Valmont. The city lights flickered below, indifferent to my pain. Indifferent to the fact that my entire life had crumbled in a matter of hours.
I walked aimlessly through the quiet streets of the aristocratic neighborhood, unsure of where to go. The apartment I shared with Rafael? I couldn't go back there. The family mansion? It wasn't mine anymore. Friends? What friends? I had distanced myself from everyone for Rafael, for this family that had betrayed me.
I was alone. Completely alone.
That's when it started to rain. A cold, piercing rain that quickly soaked my clothes. But I didn't care. I let the rain mix with the tears that were finally falling freely down my face.
Six years. Six years of sacrifice, of love, of dedication. All for nothing. Worse than nothing. All so I could end up here, alone on a cold night, with nothing and no one.
"Do you need help?"
The voice came from the darkness, masculine and deep. I looked up, wiping the rain (and tears) from my face.
A man stood a few feet away under a black umbrella. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably suited. His face was partially obscured by the shadow, but I could see dark eyes watching me with interest.
"I'm fine," I lied automatically.
"You don't look like you are." He came closer, extending the umbrella to cover me as well. "You're soaked, shivering, and clearly lost."
"I'm not lost. I know exactly where I am." My voice broke on the last word, betraying the lie.
He studied me for a long moment, his eyes roving my face as if he were reading a book.
"Let me rephrase," he said, his voice carrying genuine curiosity. "You know where you are physically. But emotionally? You're completely lost."
The precision of his observation disarmed me completely.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
A slow smile curved his lips. It wasn't a gentle smile. It was dangerous. Predatory.
"Someone who knows a broken soul when they see one." He held out his free hand. "And someone who can help you rebuild from the wreckage. If you're brave enough to accept it."
I looked at that outstretched hand, at the mysterious stranger who had appeared out of nowhere, and something inside me—something broken and hurt and angry—whispered that this was my chance.
My only chance to not be the victim in this story.
I hesitated for just a second.
Then I placed my hand in his.