Davi’s face twists.
“You can’t do this,” he hisses.
Bianca’s laugh is cold.
“I can do anything,” she says. “That’s what you married into. Too bad you didn’t read the fine print.”
The crowd begins to disperse in uneasy waves.
Some guests leave because they’re ashamed.
Others leave because they’re afraid.
And a few stay, drawn toward Lídia like people who suddenly remember what courage looks like.
A woman approaches Lídia, placing a shawl gently over her shoulders.
“My sister died of cancer,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
Lídia nods, eyes shining, and for a moment she looks unbelievably tired.
But she also looks free.
Davi tries one last time to salvage control.
He steps toward Lídia, lowering his voice, attempting the old charm like a man reaching for a tool that used to work.
“Lídia,” he murmurs, “please. We can handle this privately. I’ll pay more. I’ll
Lídia lifts a hand and stops him.
Her voice is quiet, but it cuts.
“You don’t get to bargain with the person you abandoned,” she says.
“And you don’t get to call it ‘private’ when you made my pain public.”
Security escorts Davi away from the ballroom as reporters circle like sharks that smell blood.
Bianca stands alone at the altar, blinking fast, trying not to cry in front of people who’d sell her tears for clicks.
And Lídia, in her wheelchair, is rolled gently out to the terrace, where the ocean wind is cooler and honest.
You follow her outside, not as Davi, not as Bianca, not as a guest.
You follow as someone who can’t pretend they didn’t witness something seismic.
Lídia looks up at the sky, eyes closed, breathing shallowly.
The night air fills her lungs like a small miracle.
“You were brave,” someone whispers, and Lídia shakes her head.
“I was tired,” she corrects. “Tired is what makes you honest.”
Then she lets out a soft laugh that sounds like relief.
“And I still breathe.”
