And I planned a celebration for the woman carrying the child my husband believed was his.
The day of the party arrived in gold and crystal.
The mansion glittered under chandeliers. Guests filled the hall—business associates in tailored suits, relatives dressed in silk and perfume. Their eyes lingered on me, some with pity, others with cruel fascination.
Jessica wore a fitted gown that emphasized her pregnancy. She clung to Franco’s arm like she already owned his future. Doña Matilda beamed like a queen who had finally secured her dynasty.
When she took the microphone, her voice rang through the hall.
“At last,” she declared, “the Mondragon family will have a true grandchild! Thank heaven Jessica came into our lives. If we had relied on Valerie…” she shrugged theatrically, “…our bloodline would have ended.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
I stood near the edge of the hall holding a tray of champagne flutes, as if I were staff in my own home.
“Valerie!” Franco called suddenly. “Come here.”
The crowd parted as I stepped forward.
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