“What did you go do at Lorenzo’s house?” Isabella asked, her voice sharp as she advanced toward her mother, Valeria, who was sitting in the living room near the garden.

“Me? Nothing, I just went to talk,” she replied, avoiding eye contact.

Isabella narrowed her eyes, incredulous.

“I don’t believe you at all, Mother. Tell me the truth… Did you go ask him for money?”

“No, absolutely not,” Valeria answered firmly, straightening in her seat. “I’d rather be dead than ask him for a single peso, like some beggar.”

“Then what the hell did you go do at his house?”

Valeria sighed, visibly irritated.

“I just went to talk, Isabella.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

“That’s your problem, Isabella. And enough, please, stop the drama. Instead, you tell me… Where were you? Just look at yourself, you look like you’ve cried rivers.”

Her mother’s words silenced her. Isabella turned her gaze away and walked toward the mirror on the wall. She studied her reflection and saw the evidence of her weariness in her red eyes and downcast expression. She swallowed hard and answered softly:

“I… I was at the cemetery, talking to my father. That’s all.”

Valeria approached and looked at her over her shoulder through the mirror.

“I have no choice but to believe you, Isabella.”

Isabella let out a sigh and turned to face her directly.

“Don’t change the subject, Mother. Tell me once and for all what you went to Lorenzo’s house for. Or what? Did you go to sell me off, the way you did with Penelope?”

Valeria fell silent for a moment, her lips pressed together. Finally, she let out a bitter smile.

“And if I did, so what? At least that way, you wouldn’t end up being his wife.”

Isabella straightened, her eyes filled with determination.

“No, you’re wrong. And I’m sorry, but no matter what, I will be Lorenzo’s wife. He chose me, and one way or another, I’ll be with him.”

“One way or another, Isabella. He may have chosen you, but deep down, I feel you don’t love him… that you love someone else.”

Isabella frowned, her expression hardening.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Valeria looked at her with a faint, enigmatic smile, as if she knew something Isabella was trying to hide.

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, daughter,” she replied softly, gazing at her through the reflection in the mirror. “You can deny it, but sooner or later, what you carry in your heart will come to light. I don’t know who it is, but I’ll find out.”

Her words lingered in the air, and after a brief silence, Valeria walked away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

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“Well, I’d like to make a toast.” Lorenzo’s voice rang out with confidence, interrupting the murmur around the table.

They were gathered in the garden of Valeria’s elegant home, beneath the soft glow of hanging lights. The host, Lorenzo, presided over the table, accompanied by his daughter Leila, Isabella, Dante, and an unexpected guest: Nina. When Dante had arrived with her, Isabella felt the ground tremble beneath her feet, but she forced herself to remain composed.

Lorenzo raised his glass of wine and, with a smile, continued:

“I want to toast to everyone present, to Mrs. Velarde’s generous invitation to her home for this wonderful dinner. But I also want to toast because, from today on, I feel that I will finally be complete.”

As he said this, he turned his head toward Isabella, who was seated beside him, and looked at her with such intensity that everyone at the table seemed to hold their breath. Even the air itself seemed to stop. Isabella felt her hands trembling slightly beneath the table, but Lorenzo did not appear to notice her nervousness.

“Isabella,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of emotion and solemnity, “I want to take this moment to ask you something. Will you accept to be my wife, officially?”

The table fell silent. All eyes shifted from Lorenzo to Isabella as he pulled a small black case from the pocket of his jacket. He opened it, revealing a ring—but not a conventional one. It was a delicate design of intertwined threads of pure emerald, as unique as it was unexpected.

Isabella stared at it, astonished. Her eyes moved from the ring to the faces around the table. But when her gaze met Dante’s, her heart raced wildly. There was something heartbreaking in the way he looked at her, a pain carefully hidden behind an impassive expression.

For an instant, she felt the urge to say something, anything, to ease that invisible tension between them. But then Nina, oblivious to the storm raging beneath the surface, leaned toward Dante and gave him a quick, almost possessive kiss. The gesture was like a spark that extinguished every lingering connection. Isabella turned her eyes away and back to Lorenzo, who was still waiting for her answer with a hopeful smile.

“Yes. Yes, I accept to be your wife.”

The atmosphere at the table shifted immediately. Conversations and laughter resumed, but Dante remained silent. He lifted his glass and took a long sip of wine, trying to calm the turmoil within him.

Isabella, though she forced a smile, knew that night would change everything. She had accepted the ring, but her thoughts were trapped in the raw pain she had seen in Dante’s eyes.

And while everyone else celebrated, he felt himself dying in silence.