PART 2
The judge looked at the ID again, then the file that the secretary had approached him with visibly tense hands.
“Valeria… Valeria de la Torre Villaseñor?” he asked, looking up.
The last name fell in the room like a stone in still water.
Alejandro frowned.
Rebecca blinked once.
Mariana stopped smiling.
I didn’t say anything.
The judge cleared her throat and completely changed the tone.
“Madam de la Torre, we didn’t know you were coming personally. His legal representative had reported that the property matter related to the company Grupo Villaseñor de Infraestructura would be separated from this procedure.
Rebecca turned her head toward me with almost mechanical slowness.
What… what did he say?
For the first time in three years, I saw her broken.
Not outraged.
Not haughty.
Not superior.
Scared.
Alexander let out a short, nervous laugh.
“Sorry, there must be a confusion. Valeria does not work in any company. She… she volunteered, organized charity events, stuff like that.
The judge looked at him just two seconds, as one who already knows who deserves attention and who does not.
“Mr. Salazar, I suggest you not interrupt.
Then he turned again to me.
Your lawyer is on your way, ma’am. We can wait a few minutes before we continue.
Rebecca stepped forward.
No, one moment. This doesn’t make sense. What kind of theater is this?
The secretary opened the file, reviewed a document and responded with a glacial seriousness:
It’s not a theater, ma’am. Mrs. Valeria de la Torre Villaseñor is listed as the main heir and current interim president of the family trust linked to the Villaseñor Group. In addition, there is a parallel request for a wealth audit of companies related to her husband.
The color left the face of Alexander.
What? What audit?
I finally spoke.
“The one that must have been done a long time ago.
The silence was brutal.
I felt his eyes stuck in me, but I didn’t look down.
Three years earlier, when I met Alejandro at a charity gala in Querétaro, he didn’t know who I was. And I had preferred it to still be unknowing.
My father had raised me with an almost brutal obsession with discretion. “Never tell anyone your full name until I’ve shown you their real face,” she repeated. “People don’t love who you are. Love what you think you can get out of yourself.”
I thought I was exaggerating.
Then I met the Salazar family.
Alexander courted me with flowers, patience and that false humility that so well rehearse the men who have been born feeling enough. When I told him I didn’t want a flashy wedding, he called me simple. When I refused to use his family’s last name to open doors for me, he called me proud. When I decided to continue working with foundations anonymously, her mother began to say that I did not contribute anything.
