Rodrigo Santos held the champagne glass like a shield, a glass barrier between himself and the pack of silk lionesses circling him. *Just a trophy,* he thought bitterly, as his eyes swept over the lavish hall of his own company’s anniversary celebration. Don’t they see that I am still mourning?
That my soul still bleeds?Eight months had passed since Adriana, his wife, his life partner for fifteen years, had left him—she had ripped the light from his world. For high society, however, eight months was enough. The mourning period had expired. Rodrigo was once again the city’s “golden bachelor,”
a living blank check, tailored and desirable.Beatriz Montalbán, in a fiery red dress that radiated more desperation than elegance, approached him and brushed his arm with feigned intimacy. “Rodrigo, darling, you’re so serious. Life goes on.” The sentence cut him to the core.
Life goes on, yes—but at what cost? Around him were pale smiles, jewelry worth more than houses, and glances that scanned his bank account. Rodrigo felt like an exotic animal in a golden cage, surrounded by people who didn’t see him, only what he represented.
He needed to escape. To find a moment of silence. He retreated to a darker corner, reached into the inner pocket of his suit, and felt the silver medallion, his anchor in reality. But no sooner had he drawn a breath of hope than someone appeared.
She wore neither diamonds nor designer clothes. Black uniform, white apron, a tray in her hands—but what made Rodrigo’s breath catch was her authenticity. In a sea of masks, she was the only unadorned face.Her honey-colored eyes met his, a brief glance that felt like an electric shock.
No desire, no calculation, no flattering admiration—just curiosity, perhaps a hint of compassion.Driven by a force he had long thought dead, Rodrigo made his way through the crowd, ignoring the calls of Beatriz and Carolina. He had to meet her.“—Excuse me,” he said, as she bent to pick up a few napkins from the floor.
She turned, surprised. Up close, golden sparks flickered in her eyes, an intelligent depth that immediately captivated him.“Mr. Santos?” she asked clearly. “Do you need something?”“Your name,” he blurted out, surprised at his own openness.She blinked briefly, then composed herself.
“Julia. Julia Morales.”“Julia,” he repeated, savoring the name on his tongue. “I’m Rodrigo.”“I know,” she smiled, and for the first time he saw a hint of humor in her eyes. “Everyone knows you. Hard not to when your name is above the entrance.”Rodrigo let out a quiet, rusty laugh, a sound he hadn’t heard in months.
“Probably. Although sometimes I doubt they know who I really am. They only see what I represent.”Julia stopped cleaning the table, looking at him without lowering her gaze.“People see what they want to see, Rodrigo. Especially here. But tell me, why are you really here, if you’d rather be somewhere else?”
The question struck him like an arrow to the heart. No one had ever dared to see him like this.“Duty,” he admitted, as his armor began to crack. “It’s expected of me.”“And do you always do what’s expected of you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
Before he could answer, the catering manager urgently called Julia. She excused herself briefly and disappeared, leaving Rodrigo behind—but for the first time that night, he felt alive.Later, he searched for her as the party thinned out. He didn’t find her in the hall, but in the gardens.
The night was cool, the moon above the roses. Julia sat on a stone bench near the service exit, wearing jeans, her tray set aside, gazing at the starry sky.Rodrigo approached cautiously.“Waiting for your car?” he whispered.Julia jumped up, but relaxed when she saw him.
“More like my pumpkin on wheels. The night bus comes in ten minutes.”“I can give you a ride,” he offered immediately. “My chauffeur is waiting.”Julia gently shook her head.“Thanks, Rodrigo, but no. I’m used to the bus. Besides…” She paused, appraising him.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea for the host to disappear with the waitress. Tomorrow, it would be the talk of all the ladies who see you as a dessert.”Rodrigo smiled. Her integrity impressed him. Anyone else would have killed for a ride in his car.
“You’re studying architecture, right?” he asked, recalling a conversation.“Last year. That’s why I work here. Materials are expensive.”“Architecture…” he murmured, thinking of Adriana. “Building legacies.”The bus arrived, diesel humming softly. Julia lifted her bag.
“It was a pleasure to meet the man behind the name, Rodrigo. I hope you find your own path, not the one others expect.”She got on, Rodrigo remained behind, watching as the red lights disappeared into the darkness. The medallion in his pocket suddenly felt light.
Adriana was gone—yes—but for the first time in months, his heart no longer beat only for pain.
