And I knew—darkly—that I would need a permanent solution very soon.
TWENTY-FOUR
VALENTINA MUNIZ
My hands trembled slightly as I adjusted the chairs in the bakery for the third time—despite the fact that they were already perfectly aligned.
The minutes before the meeting dragged on unnaturally, each second pressing down on my shoulders like a quiet form of punishment. I could feel the tension lodged in my neck, my chest tight, my thoughts looping without mercy.
Júlia watched me from behind the counter, silent and worried. She was trying not to interfere—I knew that—but her presence only highlighted how wrong this situation felt.
When I finally looked at her, I saw the same apprehension reflected in her eyes.
“Do you think they’ll understand?” I asked softly, my voice betraying me despite my effort to sound steady.
Júlia hesitated before answering.
“They know you, Val. They know who you are,” she said carefully. “They’ll understand.”
But even as she said it, I could tell she wasn’t sure.
A few minutes later, people began to arrive.
They greeted me with tense smiles or brief nods, their eyes sliding away too quickly. With every familiar face that refused to meet my gaze, something inside me sank deeper.
It felt like an invisible barrier had been erected between me and the people I loved—people who, until recently, had trusted me without question.
When everyone was seated, I took a deep breath and stepped forward.
“I asked you all to come today because I think it’s important to clarify what’s been happening,” I began, slow and deliberate, forcing calm into my voice even as it wavered.
The silence that followed was thick.
Suspicious.
Heavy with expectation.
“The articles and rumors circulating are not true,” I continued. “The court hearing had nothing to do with the custody of my daughter. It was a legal mediation related to the Dreamland project.” I paused. “I would never act against this community. You know that.”
For a brief moment, I thought I’d reached them.
Then the murmurs started.
Low at first. Then sharper.
“So why didn’t you tell us you already knew Ferrara?” Dona Ana asked, her voice trembling—not with anger, but hurt. “Why didn’t you tell us he’s Clara’s father?”
My throat closed instantly.
“I didn’t think it was relevant,” I said, the words sounding weaker than I intended. “It’s part of my past. Something deeply personal. It doesn’t change my commitment to this community.”
“It doesn’t?” Pedro, the pharmacist, cut in, disappointment written all over his face. “How are we supposed to trust you now, Valentina, knowing you hid something like this from all of us?”
The room seemed to tilt.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
The faces around me—once warm, welcoming—now reflected doubt, frustration, and a painful sense of betrayal.
