One sentence. One sharp blow.
Graciela looked for Andrew. Her husband. Her protector. He was on the other side of the room, deep in a business conversation. Andrew, the man who had promised her a dream life, who kept her in a tiny apartment, giving her a meager allowance.
Their eyes met. She begged him. Silent. Desperate.
Andrew saw her. He saw the humiliation, the circle of women, the security guard's hand reaching out. And he looked away.
He turned his back.
It was worse than a slap. It was the death of a promise.
The guard touched her gently on the elbow. It was a kind, professional touch. The action was brutal.
Graciela walked. She passed by the guests. Heads turned. Murmurs followed her like a dark tide. She felt the hot tears, but refused to let them fall. Only the marble, immense and cold, witnessed their fall.
Outside, under the illuminated trees, the guard offered to call her a taxi. She shook her head. She started walking down the long driveway, the tiny lights like headlights in a nightmare. The silver shoes, bought for fifteen dollars, rubbed against her feet. The red dress, which for an hour had made her feel beautiful, now weighed her down like rusty armor.
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