Elena Ferrer didn’t ask if Isabel was sure about what she’d heard. She asked where she was, who knew about the conversation, and if she could leave the mansion without going through the groom’s bedroom. Isabel replied with messages from a sitting room she’d found empty next to the library. The forty-seven-year-old lawyer had spent half her life putting out corporate fires, but she’d never heard such a curt order from her friend. Her first impulse wasn’t to process documents, but to get her to safety. She advised her not to confront Diego and to stay away from any impromptu outings with him. Then she contacted the notary’s office that held the will to request an urgent appointment.
Isabel watched the flowers in the reception hall from behind a curtain. The guests were beginning to take their seats, and a violinist was rehearsing discreetly, oblivious to the disaster. The wedding had been designed to appear simple, although nothing at that estate in La Moraleja could be called modest. There was a transparent marquee, paths lined with rose bushes, and a table with photographs of the couple. Isabel recognized a picture taken in Lisbon during her first getaway with Diego. He was smiling, his head tilted toward her. The woman in the photo hadn’t imagined that such a gesture could be an act. Now she wondered how many times she had seen tenderness where there had only been calculation.
Elena sent her three instructions. The first was to inform the coordinator that the ceremony was postponed for a personal reason, without explaining the plan she had heard about. The second was not to sign any new powers of attorney, authorizations, or documents. The third was to keep all messages, reservations, and papers related to Diego, without withholding any private information or taking any risks. Isabel agreed. She had always spoken firmly when running her business, but that afternoon she needed someone else to lend her a structure. She followed each instruction like a shipwrecked woman learning to cling to a rope.
The coordinator, a woman named Nuria Casals, went pale when she received the news. She wanted to know if there had been an argument, if Diego was ill, if she should notify the guests. Isabel simply said that the wedding wouldn’t take place and that the decision was hers. Nuria, accustomed to weddings where clients questioned even the color of the napkins, understood that she couldn’t argue with her. She discreetly halted the preparations. Isabel asked that no one use the word “accident.” She found it repulsive to use it, even to explain an absence. That word had just changed its meaning in her life.
An hour later, Elena arrived in her car and parked far from the main entrance. She found Isabel sitting in a small room, still in her wedding dress, an untouched cup of water in her hands. She didn’t hug her immediately. She knelt before her and asked her to recount what had happened from the beginning, without embellishment or interpretation. Isabel repeated Diego’s sentence almost word for word. When she got to “we kept his entire fortune,” she had to stop. Elena waited. Then she clarified two essential points: the will could be revoked following legal procedure, and the marriage, even if it had taken place, did not automatically make Diego the owner of the companies. However, the intention Isabel described was extremely serious and warranted legal counsel and protective measures.
Isabel wanted to know if her testimony would be enough. Elena didn’t promise a conviction or fabricate evidence. She explained that hearing such a threat was important, but they would need to reconstruct the circumstances, preserve communications, and let the authorities investigate. “I don’t want to turn my life into a circus,” Isabel murmured. “Neither do I,” the lawyer replied. “I want you to stay alive and be able to decide what to do with what’s yours.” That sentence brought her back down to earth. They weren’t talking about protecting the image of a millionaire, but about preventing her life from being reduced to a financial transaction.
Shortly before nightfall, Diego called for the first time. His name appeared on the screen, and the phone vibrated in Isabel’s hands. She felt a physical reaction, a mixture of disgust and nostalgia. She remembered his laughter behind the door. She also remembered how he had made her herbal teas when she had a fever and how he knew the names of her trusted employees. There were genuine moments, or at least moments that had seemed genuine. Elena told her she wasn’t obligated to answer. Isabel let the call go. Diego dialed again. This time he sent a message: “What’s happened? I hear you’ve called off the wedding. I’m worried.” The text was punctuated with the same precision she had always admired in him. Isabel read it twice. She was surprised by how easily a sentence could seem loving when its author had already discovered the lie.
