Chapter 2 The Dance of Suspicions

The applause was still ringing in her ears when Mia felt the weight of the dress chaining her to that glittering lie. It was as beautiful as a trap: every layer of lace, every hand-sewn pearl, every stitch was made to sustain an illusion. And she was the most fragile piece of all. The lights in the hall blinded her at times. The enormous chandelier spilled golden sparkles onto the tables, glasses clinked, and guests crowded around to admire the perfect couple. Everyone laughed, whispered, and cast envious glances. No one saw the slight tremble in Mia's fingers, nor the drop of sweat that threatened to loosen the tiny silicone prosthesis glued to her jawline. Such a small piece, barely a mold that refined the contours of her chin, narrowed her face to transform her into Lara Salazar. It was her shield and her curse: if they touched her too much, if they kissed her where they shouldn't, if she sweated too much... everything would fall apart. "Ready?" Hector's voice reached her ear like a sharp blow. He stood at her side, imposing in that perfectly tailored black suit. He had the posture of someone who commands an entire room with the flick of a finger. He extended his hand toward her, waiting for her to fulfill her role. Mia took a deep breath, adjusted her veil to cover the roots of her wig, and placed her hand over his. The orchestra began to play a solemn waltz. The chords rose to the vaulted ceiling, bounced off the marble walls, and returned heavy with anticipation. It was the moment everyone had been waiting for: the radiant bride, the impeccable husband, the first dance that sealed a union blessed by money and appearances. "Don't tremble," Hector murmured as he placed his other firm hand on the curve of her waist. The warmth of his palm pierced layers of satin and lace. "You look... nervous." "It's the excitement," she lied, in a whisper she hoped sounded convincing. Héctor barely raised an eyebrow. He turned her around with a precise, elegant movement. Mía felt the spotlights follow every step, every blink, every tiny crack in her performance. Inside, she prayed that the prosthesis would stay in place. That the line that made her Lara wouldn't melt in the heat of the spotlights. "You look... different," he blurted out suddenly, so quietly that the music almost swallowed his words. A chill ran down her spine. "Different?" Mía repeated, forcing herself to hold her smile. The varnish on the mask shouldn't crack. "You must be tired." Héctor didn't respond immediately. The music seemed to slow down as he turned her around, pulling her back against his chest. Her perfume-a mix of cedar, mint, and something dark-made her head spin. "You're... softer," he murmured, brushing his lips against her ear. "Lara never stops biting." Mía suppressed a shudder. Don't bite, don't answer, don't betray yourself. "Today is a special day," she improvised, plastering on a rehearsed smile in front of the flashbulbs crackling around them. "Today I'm all sweetness." He gave a short, dry laugh that died before reaching her eyes. His fingers dug a little deeper into her waist, as if reminding her who was in control. The orchestra raised its pitch, forcing them to turn once more. Every step was a trap: if she stumbled, if the veil shifted, if someone brushed against her too closely... goodbye to everything. She thought of her sister waiting for her far away, of the promised money, of the promise of being no one again. Just two days. Two more days. When the music died, the applause shook her like a wave. Héctor slowly released her, still staring at her. She tried not to blink too quickly, not to lower her gaze. Lara didn't budge. The guests swarmed around her like bees. Aunts scented with wilted flowers, cousins ​​eager for photos, politicians with marble smiles. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the perfect bride. Mía gave a cheek, a smile, a calculated "thank you." Meanwhile, she felt the wig tug at her scalp and the edge of the prosthesis brush against her already irritated skin. In the midst of this whirlwind, Héctor got lost between a couple of business associates, but his eyes found her from afar. He watched her. He never stopped watching her. As if he smelled something rotten behind the white veil. Then, a glass of champagne appeared in her hands. The perfect bubble. The waiter leaned in, wishing her happiness. Mía held it, uncertain. The cold glass pierced her clammy palm. Héctor returned. A step away, he raised his own glass and clinked it against hers. The sound was clear, almost fragile. "Don't drink too much tonight," he said, without looking away. Mía forced a soft laugh. The rim of the glass touched her lips, but she didn't drink. "I don't drink," she replied automatically, without thinking. A dry silence, so thin it almost hurt, stretched between them. Héctor tilted his head. His eyes, as dark as a bottomless pit, pierced her. "You don't drink?" he repeated, as if confirming a ridiculous rumor. That's when Mia felt the ground give way beneath her feet. Images flashed through her mind: Lara toasting at parties, holding glasses of red wine, laughing with the glass half empty. A stupid mistake, one no layer of silicone could cover. "Not... much," she corrected, swallowing. "Today I just want to remember everything." Hector didn't respond. He just touched the rim of his glass with his fingertip, as if toying with the idea of ​​discovering what was behind his new wife. The toast ended without her tasting a drop. When Hector stepped away to greet a group of investors, Mia felt the glass tremble in her hands. She turned, looking for a corner to breathe. She leaned against a column, hidden from the hustle and bustle. She felt her skin burning beneath her prosthesis, the root of her wig pricking behind her ear. She couldn't scratch it. She couldn't drink. She couldn't stumble. Two days. Just two. But when she looked up, there he was again. Standing, half-hidden in the shadows, watching her like a patient hawk. The glass was still in his hand, his lips tense in a smile that wasn't a smile. It was the promise that, sooner or later, someone would pay for every lie.