Chapter 4

The next day was the welcome dinner the Vega family was hosting for Sofia at the lakeside estate.

The courtyard had been decorated in a style that was extravagant and tasteless. White flower arches stretched from the entrance to the main house, and a long table was laden with wine and food. Dario had invited local businessmen, bank managers, town council members, and a sizable group of relatives and friends from Madrid. He was clearly planning to use this event to announce to everyone that Sofia was the Vega family's publicly recognized wife.

Nico and I were still locked in the storage room.

Voices drifted through the wall.

"Mr. Vega is such a stand-up man. His brother just died, and he's already taking responsibility for the widow and the baby."

"I hear he's even bringing his other son to Madrid, and Ms. Alvarez is willing to take the boy in. How generous."

"What about that Romani woman? She won't come out and cause trouble, will she?"

"Pay her enough and she'll behave. People like her only care about money."

I sat on the bed, holding a red embroidered scarf.

It wasn't a universal Romani tradition, nor did it represent all Romani women. It was simply a wedding custom preserved by my mother's and grandmother's branch of the family. When a woman in our line decided to share her life with someone, she would embroider both their names and a pomegranate blossom along the edge of a red scarf. Seven years ago, I spent three full years stitching Dario's name and mine into that cloth, stitch by stitch.

He once said that on the day of our public wedding, he would drape this red scarf over my shoulders himself.

The door was suddenly pushed open.

Sofia swept in, flanked by several Madrid socialites. She had come to savor my humiliation, but her eyes quickly landed on the scarf.

"That shawl is quite special." She reached for it.

I turned away. "Don't touch it."

Her hand stopped in midair, and her face hardened. One of the women beside her snapped, "You should be flattered Sofia wants anything of yours. Do you really think you're the lady of this house?"

Sofia clutched her belly and sagged against the doorframe. "I only thought the red would look festive at dinner. If she won't lend it to me, fine. But why look at me like that? Just seeing the scarf makes my heart race, as if she's put a curse on my baby."

Several women immediately swarmed around her with comfort, then turned their accusations on me.

"The woman he kept on the side, waving wedding fabric around to humiliate his wife."

"No wonder the Vega family won't acknowledge her."

The commotion soon drew Dario in.

He walked in, saw Sofia clutching her belly, and immediately wrapped an arm around her. "What's wrong? Where does it hurt?"

Sofia pressed her face to his chest, her eyes reddening. "I just thought the red scarf was pretty and asked to borrow it for a little while. Mira refused and even told me it was her wedding shawl. I know she doesn't like me, but the baby is innocent."

Dario turned to me, his face dark. His gaze lingered on the scarf for a split second. Something seemed to flash in his eyes, but it was quickly swallowed by impatience.

"Give the scarf to Sofia."

I looked up. "I embroidered this for my own wedding. You said you'd drape it over my shoulders in front of everyone."

He frowned, his voice final. "Sofia is my wife now. This is her dinner, and she wants to wear it. Is lending it to her once really too much to ask? Stop humiliating yourself in front of the guests."

"I won't lend it."

Dario's patience snapped. He strode forward and seized my wrist. "Mira, have I been too lenient with you? It's a piece of cloth. Do you really have to use it to humiliate Sofia?"

He ordered the bodyguards over his shoulder. "Take it."

Two bodyguards stepped forward and pressed down on my shoulders. I clutched the scarf with everything I had. Nico threw himself at us, crying, "Stop hurting Mommy!"

Dario pushed the child aside and yanked harder at my hand. In the chaos, a slap landed hard across my face.

The room went silent.

That slap didn't just strike my face. It shattered the last chance he ever had to turn back.

The socialites looked startled, then quickly turned away as if nothing had happened. They weren't horrified that Dario had struck a Romani woman in public. They were worried the police or press might see and stain the Vega family's reputation.

Sofia, meanwhile, stood behind him, the faintest curl at the corner of her lips. She knew that as long as she kept playing the fragile wife, Dario would do all the hurting for her.

I turned my head. My lip tasted of blood.

Dario stared at his own hand, visibly stunned. But Sofia's soft sobs behind him pulled him back, and he quickly straightened up, restoring that look of superiority.

"Hand over the scarf. Don't make me have someone take it off you in front of everyone."

I lifted my eyes to him. There was no anger left in them.

Nico's sobs filled my ears. The bodyguards' hands bore down on my shoulders. At my feet lay a box of my mother's belongings, abandoned in the mud. Seven years ago, Dario's hands had shaken whenever I was hurt. Now he was threatening to strip away the last of my dignity so another woman could wear my red scarf.

Suddenly, I felt no pain.

Not because the slap hadn't been hard, but because it had finally killed the last trace of hope I had for him.

"That's quite the show of force, Mr. Vega."

A steady male voice came from outside the door.

The police parted the crowd. Mateo entered in a dark overcoat, followed by two prosecutors, several officers, and caseworkers from child welfare services.

He came to my side and draped his coat over my shoulders, shielding me from the staring crowd. Then he faced Dario. "Which matters more to you, Mr. Vega: that shawl, or the allegations of money laundering, forged evidence, unlawful confinement, and fraud in a custody case?"

Dario spun around, the color draining from his face.

I looked down at the red scarf in my arms and slowly loosened my grip.

It fell into the mud by the doorway.

I lifted my foot and stepped over it.