Seven years after the divorce, he found his ex-wife working as a janitress, quietly staring at a one-million-dollar gown behind a glass window.
Mariana bent down to pick up the paper bills—not because she needed them, but because she didn’t want the polished marble floor to get dirty. She carefully placed them beside the trash bin and said in a calm voice:
— “You should keep it. That money… you’re going to need it.”
Alejandro froze for a moment. There was no anger in her tone. No pleading either. That kind of composure irritated him more than any accusation ever could.
— “Are you still like this, with your fake dignity?” Alejandro sneered, then turned to Camila. “See? Poor already, yet still full of pride.”
(There may be an image of one or more people and text indicating “M.”)
Camila laughed mockingly and clung even tighter to Alejandro’s arm, looking Mariana up and down with contempt. At that moment, a group of men in black suits entered the lobby. Leading them was a gray-haired man with a commanding posture and a dignified presence, followed by executives and members of the media.
The mall manager bowed deeply.
— “Mrs. Mariana, everything is ready. The presentation will begin in three minutes.”
The entire lobby… fell into a heavy silence.
Alejandro turned pale.
— “Mrs… Mariana?” His voice was hoarse, as if something were choking him.
Mariana gave a slight nod. She placed the cleaning cloth on the cart and carefully removed her gloves. An assistant immediately stepped forward and draped an elegant white blazer over her shoulders.
In just a few seconds, the “janitress” disappeared.
Standing before Alejandro was a different woman—her hair loose, her posture straight, her gaze deep and cold.
The gray-haired man stepped forward and announced loudly for everyone to hear:
— “It is our honor to introduce Mrs. Mariana Ortega, founder of the brand ‘Fénix de Fuego’ and the principal investor of the exclusive collection launching tonight.”
Alejandro staggered back, shock written all over his face. The red gown adorned with rubies behind Mariana—the very gown he had mocked moments earlier—bore its creator’s name.
Mariana turned to him. And she smiled. But it was no longer the fragile smile of the woman from seven years ago.
— “Seven years ago, you said I wasn’t on your level,” she said. “Just minutes ago, you said I would never be allowed to touch this gown.”
She raised her hand. The staff opened the glass case. Mariana touched the red fabric with effortless grace. The lights made the entire lobby seem as if it were on fire.
— “What a pity…” she whispered. “Because the one who no longer has the right to touch any of this… is you.”
At that very moment, Alejandro’s phone began vibrating nonstop. A message from his secretary read:
“Sir, the strategic partner has just pulled out all investments. They’ve already signed an exclusive contract with… Mrs. Mariana Ortega.”
Before he could even react, Camila violently yanked her arm away from his.
— “Weren’t you supposed to become vice president? Were you lying to me?”
She turned and walked away, the sound of her heels like a hammer crushing what remained of Alejandro’s shattered pride.
Mariana walked past him. She didn’t look back. She left behind only one sentence, hanging softly in the air like a breeze:
— “Thank you… for letting me go that day.”
Alejandro was left standing in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by luxury, camera flashes, and whispers—trapped in a reality he had never imagined he would have to face.