Rodrigo looks at you then—not with pity, but with pride so steady it anchors you. He turns back to Beatriz. “You don’t get to touch people because you think money gives you permission,” he says. “You don’t get to treat human beings like furniture.” He pauses, letting the message settle. “And you don’t get to walk out of here pretending this never happened.” Beatriz’s mouth opens, but nothing intelligent comes out. Her husband finally grabs her arm, not gently, and leans close to whisper something harsh enough that she flinches. He pulls her away, not because he cares about you, but because he cares about what this does to his own standing.
A few guests begin to clap—tentative at first, like they’re checking if it’s safe. Then more join in, louder, braver, as if they’re applauding not just you, but the moment someone finally said what they’ve swallowed for years. You don’t feel triumphant. You feel tired, raw, painfully aware of how quickly people turn cruel when they think they can. But you also feel something new rising through the shame—a strange, steady strength. Rodrigo keeps his hand over yours, firm, a quiet promise. You realize he didn’t just defend you; he forced the room to reveal itself.
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