Alma Ríos did not know exactly when she began living with a constant tightness in her stomach.
Maybe it was the day her name appeared in a mass email from the University of Guadalajara: “An investigation has begun for plagiarism.”
Or perhaps weeks later, when her key stopped opening the door to her apartment in Colonia Americana, and the landlord spoke to her from the other side as if she were a dangerous stranger.
What was certain was this: at thirty-two, the former literature professor was scavenging in a trash bin at Plaza Tapatía, searching for leftovers that did not yet smell like defeat.
The sun was beginning to set, and the shadow of Guadalajara Cathedral stretched across the pavement. Carefully, Alma separated a piece of bread wrapped in a napkin. It wasn’t disgust she feared—it was the possibility that someone might see her and recognize her.
“You’re not ugly,” said a man’s voice, far too close. “You just need to dress better… and marry me.”
Alma froze, the plastic bag pressed to her chest like a shield. She looked up.
The man was tall, wearing a flawless coat, polished shoes, and a confidence that seemed impossible in a world where people had learned to pretend she did not exist.
“Excuse me?” she whispered.
The stranger, without waiting for an answer, knelt right there in the middle of tourists and vendors. He took out a small red box and opened it. A ring glittered mockingly in the last light of evening.
“I know this looks ridiculous,” he said. “But I need your help.”
Alma stepped back.
“Get up. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m desperate.”
Some people stopped. A little boy tugged on his mother’s sleeve to point at them. Alma felt the heat of their stares—burning more painfully than hunger.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Gael Navarro,” he replied, carefully closing the box. “And I have twenty-three days to get married, or I lose my family’s business.”
Alma let out a short, dry laugh.
“And you think the solution is… to buy a wife off the street?”
Gael’s eyes didn’t shrink or show hurt. Instead, they hardened, as if he were accepting a blow he believed he deserved.
“This isn’t charity,” he said. “It’s an agreement. You help me, I help you.”
Alma hugged herself. Her clothes were only half clean; her hair, tied back with a worn elastic, felt like a silent confession. Yet inside her still lived the part that once corrected essays with red ink and debated metaphors as if they were matters of life and death.
“Explain.”
Gael stood slowly, careful not to invade her space.
“My grandfather left a clause: if I’m not married before I turn thirty-five, everything goes to my cousin Renata. And Renata…” His mouth tightened. “She doesn’t want to preserve the company. She wants to sell it off in pieces.”
“And why me?”
Gael slipped the ring away, as if refusing to use it to pressure her.
“Because I’ve seen you here for weeks. You don’t insult anyone. You don’t beg. Even when people treat you badly, you still say thank you. You have dignity.”
The word struck Alma’s chest painfully because it was true. She tried to look away, but it was too late—emotion had already risen to her eyes.
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know you didn’t choose to end up here,” Gael said with a certainty that startled her. “And I know someone destroyed your life.”
Alma swallowed, anger tangled with shame.
“Marriage is not a game.”
“It’s just on paper. Six months. No physical relationship, if that’s what you want. I’ll give you five hundred thousand pesos. Half now, half at the end. And…” he paused, “you’ll help me convince my grandfather that it’s real.”
Five hundred thousand. The number struck her mind like a hammer. With that, she could hire a real lawyer, eat without fear, rent a room again. She could fight back. She could stop being nothing more than a dirty rumor.
“I have conditions,” she said, surprising herself.
Gael nodded.
“Tell me.”
“Separate rooms. No physical contact. And when this is over… you help me clear my name.”
Gael looked at her as if something he had suspected was now confirmed.
“What did they do to you?”
Alma hesitated. Saying it aloud meant reopening the wound.
“They accused me of plagiarism. It was a lie. They destroyed me.”
In Gael’s eyes flickered something deeper than urgency—a quiet, controlled anger.
“I accept,” he said. “Thursday, seven p.m. If you come, we begin. If you don’t, I won’t look for you again.”
He handed her a card: thick paper, gold lettering, an address in Puerta de Hierro, Guadalajara. Before leaving, he added without turning back:
“There’s a shelter two blocks away. They serve dinner before eight. Go.”
That night, Alma slept on a bench—but she was no longer the same. The fear was still there, like a stubborn rat. But within the fear, a spark had appeared: the dangerous idea that destiny could change in just two days.
On Thursday at 6:58 p.m., Alma pressed the intercom with a trembling finger.
“Good evening,” answered a woman’s voice. “Who is this?”
“Alma Ríos. Gael… he’s expecting me.”
The gate opened. A flawless garden welcomed her like a foreign world. She was guided by the housekeeper, Doña Beatriz, who did not smile.
“Mr. Gael is in his room.”
Gael stood when he saw her. He didn’t ask about her immediate past. He only said:
“Thank you for coming.”
That night they signed a simple contract. The next day he deposited the first half, and took her shopping for clothes. Alma wanted to refuse every dress, every pair of shoes out of guilt. Gael insisted patiently.
“I’m not changing you,” he said. “I’m just giving you back your tools.”
In the living room, as the mirror reflected a face closer to who she once was, Alma cried quietly. Not out of vanity. Out of mourning.
The first dinner with Gael’s grandfather was a test disguised as courtesy. Don Ernesto Navarro was one of those men who never raised his voice because he didn’t need to.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Alma,” he said, pouring wine. “What did you do before?”
Alma felt the knot rise in her throat. Gael was about to intervene, but she gently touched his arm.
“I was a literature professor,” she said, meeting Don Ernesto’s eyes. “I was falsely accused of plagiarism. I lost everything because of a lie.”
The dining room fell silent. Don Ernesto set down his glass.
“Injustice is the most common poison,” he murmured. “And the most comfortable for cowards.”
Gael looked at her with something like pride. For the first time in months, Alma felt that telling the truth did not make her weaker.
The real blow came the next day.
Doña Beatriz climbed to the library where Alma was trying to read, as if reading could fix the world.
“Mrs. Alma… there’s a man asking for you. He says he knew you in college. His name is… Octavio Ledesma.”
At the surname, her blood went cold.
Octavio—the professor who had harassed her, who had offered to “protect” her career in exchange for favors, who had planted evidence on her computer and then smiled like the victim when she rejected him.
Alma went downstairs. Octavio stood by the window, wearing the same smile that never reached his eyes.
“Alma, what a miracle,” he said. “Look at you… recovered.”
“What do you want?”
Octavio sat down without being invited.
“Peace. I can ‘clarify’ the plagiarism misunderstanding publicly. I just need… a trade-off. Fifty thousand pesos.”
Rage burned through Alma.
“You destroyed me… and now you want me to pay you to admit it?”
Octavio shrugged.
“That’s the real world. And by the way… it would be a shame if your husband learned who he married. The Navarro reputation is delicate.”
When he left, Alma trembled—not out of fear of him, but fear of losing everything again.
She called Gael. This time, he arrived within fifteen minutes.
“Tell me everything,” he said calmly, but with iron beneath his voice.
She told him. When she finished, Gael inhaled slowly, as if acknowledging a war.
“We need evidence,” he said. “And we will not buy it. We’ll make the truth appear.”
He hired a private investigator: Héctor Zamora, a gray-haired man with precise eyes. Héctor listened, took notes, asked for names, dates, emails, any detail.
“Blackmailers repeat patterns,” he said. “If he did this to you, he’s done it to others.”
A week later, Héctor returned with a folder.
“Two more cases,” he reported. “Same method. Same professor influencing committees. And his lifestyle doesn’t match his salary. Strange deposits. People who are afraid of him.”
The final piece came from where Alma least expected it.
One afternoon, as she and Gael were leaving a café, a nervous woman approached.
“Professor… Alma?”
Alma turned. Mariela Ortega—her former favorite student. The one who had once lowered her gaze and walked away when the accusations began.
“Mariela,” Alma whispered.
Mariela swallowed.
“I saw your name in the news. That you married Gael Navarro. I… didn’t know how to find you before. And… I have something.”
She pulled out a USB drive.
“When everything happened, I worked as an assistant in the computer lab. I saw someone access your computer. I didn’t say anything because I was scared. But I saved the logs.”
Alma felt the world tilt. This wasn’t just memory—it was proof.
Gael exhaled.
“Thank you,” he said, not like a businessman, but like someone who understood what it cost to finally do the right thing.
The plan was fast and dangerous. They summoned Octavio to a hotel “to negotiate.” This time, Héctor arranged everything so the conversation would be legally recorded. Gael was present—not as a fake husband, but as someone who no longer intended to pretend.
Octavio arrived confidently.
“Did you bring the money?” he asked with a smile.
Alma met his gaze without lowering her eyes.
“We brought something better.”
Héctor placed the folder on the table: photos, deposits, testimonies—and finally, the access logs with date and time.
Octavio’s smile vanished.
“That proves nothing.”
“Enough to open a criminal and administrative investigation,” Héctor said calmly. “And to make your name national news.”
Octavio swallowed hard.
“What do you want?”
Alma leaned forward.
“A signed confession. Public. And your resignation. You stop destroying lives.”
Octavio looked at Gael, searching for weakness.
“Your marriage—”
Gael smiled coldly.
“My marriage is my business. Yours is that you’re a fraud.”
A long, heavy silence followed. Finally, Octavio lowered his eyes.
“Give me twenty-four hours.”
The next day, he signed. Not out of honor—but out of fear.
The university issued a statement. The case was reopened. Alma was officially exonerated. The apologies did not erase the hunger or the nights on benches—but they gave her back something she thought was dead: her name.
That night, in the home library, Alma held the document with trembling hands.
“It’s over,” she whispered.
Gael stepped closer.
“It’s not over,” he corrected softly. “It’s beginning.”
She looked at him—not the heir, not the desperate stranger, but the man who stayed after the contract had been fulfilled.
“Our agreement,” she murmured.
Gael took the original contract—the one with the six months, the clauses, the separate rooms.
“You forgot something,” he said, pointing to a line. “You didn’t include what happens if two people stop pretending.”
Alma laughed through tears.
“What an oversight.”
Gael looked at her as if asking permission for the first time.
“May I kiss you… without acting?”
Alma didn’t answer with words. She stepped closer.
The kiss was simple—but filled with everything they had survived: fear, shame, pride, hope. It felt like a promise no contract could ever predict.
Months later, Alma returned to teaching—this time at a university that welcomed her with respect. Don Ernesto, who had once only wanted “stability” for his grandson, funded a scholarship program for students like Alma, those one step away from giving up.
Renata, the cousin, stopped smiling with venom when she realized she would not inherit the company through suspicion.
And Mariela became Alma’s first research assistant, determined never again to remain silent out of fear.
One afternoon, Alma and Gael walked hand in hand through the same plaza where she once searched for food. Not to relive the pain—but to place it where it belonged: behind them.
“Do you believe in destiny?” Alma asked.
Gael looked around at the vendors, the families, the life surrounding them.
“I believe in decisions,” he said. “Destiny might place a card in your hand… but you decide whether to walk through the door.”
Alma squeezed his hand.
“I walked through,” she whispered.
“So did I,” he replied.
And for the first time in a long while, the plaza no longer felt like the place where her life fell apart—but the exact place where it truly began again.
💚🤍❤️ 💚🤍❤️ 💚🤍❤️ 💚🤍❤️ 💚🤍❤️
🍀 Through the entire story, which emotion moved you the most? Did you laugh, cry, sigh?
Tell me in the comments. 🍀 💚🤍❤️