The drive from the gate to the house was long enough for their laughter to slowly disappear. On one side stretched lavender gardens and views of Lake Valle de Bravo. On the other stood stables, service vehicles, and staff moving with quiet precision.

“This must be a hotel,” Paola whispered.

“Or a rented venue,” Doña Teresa added, though her voice lacked certainty.

When they arrived, a butler greeted them.

“Good afternoon. Mrs. Varela is waiting on the terrace.”

Inside, everything spoke of permanence—art, stone floors, high ceilings, sunlight flooding the space. Nothing looked borrowed.

They were led outside, where a long table was set with fine tableware, fresh flowers, and crystal glasses. Chefs prepared food nearby while music played softly.

Then I appeared.

I walked calmly, wearing a deep blue dress, composed and confident in a way they had never seen before.

“Mariana,” Rodrigo said, forcing a smile. “Who lent you this place?”

“No one,” I replied.

“Stop joking,” Doña Teresa snapped. “You could never afford this.”

At that moment, my assistant approached.

“Ms. Varela, the transfer documents are ready. The Cortés Group board also requested a call before Monday’s announcement.”

Rodrigo froze.

“What board?”

I placed the folder on the table.