MR. FELDMAN

I read the message once more... and again. Two months. Two long and humiliating months since Armando kicked me out onto the street. And now he wanted to see me?

I wrote an impulsive, desperate message, demanding answers. But just as I was about to send it, the car braked sharply. We had arrived.

We parked in front of an impressive mansion, modern architecture, with tinted windows and silver-toned walls.

"We have arrived, Miss," Eder announced formally.

I glanced at my cell phone screen. Then, without sending the message, I put it back in my pocket; I had to face my other reality.

Eder circled the car and opened my door with a courtesy that seemed almost ironic. I stepped out and was dazzled. The place was simply majestic. I walked behind him, feeling tiny amidst such opulence.

I imagined the said Mr. Feldman as an octogenarian old man, possibly with several divorces under his belt and a fortune too large to spend alone. A man who sought companionship for convenience rather than affection.

I couldn't deny that I felt nervous; my heart was pounding rapidly in my chest, and for a moment I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

The main door opened, and to my surprise, a retinue of employees waited on the other side. Elegant women, all dressed in the same pearly gray uniform, and a couple of men who were clearly bodyguards. The welcome was so organized it seemed like a ceremony.

"Welcome, Miss Manson. Come this way, Mr. Feldman is waiting for you," said a middle-aged woman with a kind voice.

I rolled my eyes, stifling a sigh, and reluctantly followed her. My phone vibrated insistently in the palm of my hand. I glanced at it: Armando. Another call. A shiver ran down my spine.

The woman opened the door to an enormous office. An aroma of woody perfume immediately enveloped me, deep, masculine. I closed my eyes for an instant, bracing myself for the inevitable.

The presidential chair in front of the desk slowly rotated toward me.

And then I saw him.

"Miss Amelie Manson."

The deep, firm voice forced me to open my eyes suddenly. I looked around, stunned, and then turned my gaze forward. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

He was there. Imposing. Tall, with a sculpted body, hair dark as night, and a piercing gaze. He had nothing to do with the old man I had imagined.

"Mr. Feldman..." I stammered.

"Yes. I'm Damián Feldman Jr. How are you?"

For a second, everything inside me shook. Seeing him from that perspective, marrying Damián didn't seem like such a crazy idea. He was the kind of man any woman—sensible or not—would desire. And then, my inner state changed. Fear turned into confusion...

"Mr. Feldman," I said, regaining my composure, "I'd like to tell you that I'm fine, but I'm not. I've read the agreements you signed with my father, and I'm here to tell you that I'm willing to pay my family's debt... but not by marrying you."

Damián took two steps toward me, his expression becoming even more serious, colder.

"I think you are mistaken, Miss Manson. I did not sign those agreements." His gaze locked with mine, disarming me immediately. "It is my father who wants to marry you."

From an adjoining office, an older man emerged, somber expression, heavy steps, and a cane in hand. His mere presence chilled the atmosphere.

"What...?" I whispered, stepping back a little when I saw him.

"Miss Manson," he said in a grave voice as he approached, his penetrating, hungry eyes scrutinizing me as if he already possessed me.

No. It couldn't be real. This had to be a cruel joke. There was no way anyone intended to force me to marry that man. With that old man.

"Son, could you leave us alone?" he ordered without taking his eyes off me.

Damián shrugged, not opposing. As he passed by me, I felt a shiver run from head to toe.

"Mr. Feldman," I tried, seeking firmness in my voice, "I was telling your son that... that... I..." the words caught in my throat. "That I don't want to marry you. My father signed those documents without my consent."

The man sketched a barely perceptible smile, without a trace of warmth.

"If you don't want to marry me, you don't have to. The door is open, Amelie." His tone was calm, almost courteous, but every word was a threat. "Just remember there are clauses... and their non-compliance has consequences."

My hands began to tremble. I pressed my lips together, looked at him fixedly... and felt nauseated. He was at least forty years older than me. He resembled my father so much that the mere idea caused a knot in my stomach.

"Sir, I deeply regret what my father agreed to with you, but I can't do it. I can't get married, I'm recently divorced."

"I know," he replied with a bitter smile. "You are Armando González's ex-wife."

"How do you know who my husband is?" I asked, taking a step back, alarmed.

Mr. Feldman's expression darkened even more. Without responding immediately, he slowly walked to his seat, enjoying my confusion.

"Who wouldn't know who the son of a bitch is who is hurting my daughter?" Mr. Feldman spat in a hoarse voice, loaded with hatred.

My eyes widened in astonishment. Then everything began to click like pieces in a puzzle. Rosalía... my ex-husband's mistress... was my future husband's daughter.

"And what do I have to do with all of this?" I asked, confused.

Feldman looked at me like a bird of prey.

"With you, I will take revenge on that imbecile... and I will get Rosalía to come home."

I was paralyzed. So, this had nothing to do with love, or agreements, or marriage. Only revenge. I was just another piece on his board, a means to punish the man who had taken his daughter.

All that man wanted was to use me to take revenge on Armando, as if I had any power against him. Armando knew how to manipulate, how to seduce, how to empty you inside until nothing was left... like he did to me. He made me fall in love, he used me, and then he threw me onto the street, taking absolutely everything from me.

And yet, as absurd as it sounded... I still loved him. It still hurt.

But the idea of revenge... that idea was too tempting.

That night, the same woman who had received me led me to a room on the second floor of the mansion. I opened the door, turned on the light, and found a perfectly decorated room. Elegant, cozy, as if it had been prepared in advance.

I left my purse on the bed, observing every detail. Everything disconcerted me.

I approached the closet with slow steps, and when I opened it, I found a display of clothes that took my breath away. There was everything: sportswear, elegant dresses, casually folded clothes, a collection of designer shoes, and a small sanctuary of exuberant jewelry that sparkled under the warm light of the dressing room. I slid my fingers across each shelf.

I shook my head, incredulous.

"All of this is for you, Miss," the woman's voice snapped me out of my trance.

I turned around, startled.

"Who did all this?" I asked anxiously.

"Mr. Feldman," she replied naturally. "By the way, I'm Amanda, the family's trusted housekeeper. But from now on, I will be at your service. Anything you need, don't hesitate to ask me."

I closed my eyes, swallowing hard. It was all too much.

"Thank you, Amanda. Could you leave me alone for a moment?"

She nodded with a discreet smile, left the room, and softly closed the door.

I sat on the padded bed and took my cell phone out of my pocket. The lit screen showed more messages from Armando.

"Are you okay?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm coming for you."

My hands trembled.

And then I cried. I cried until the pillow was soaked, until the pain in my chest exhausted me, until my body could no longer resist and I fell asleep.

I didn't understand anything. After all the damage, after abandoning me, destroying me, why did Armando want to see me? Why now?