Alexandre felt a chill race down his spine.
He saw his own blue eyes staring back at him.
The shape of his chin. The arch of his brows.
Two living mirrors.
“Alex, what’s wrong? The light changed,” Clara said impatiently.
He didn’t hear her.
A horn blared behind them, sharp and aggressive, but he was deaf to everything except the thunder of his own blood.
Beatriz bent down and gently wiped one girl’s face.
He saw a life he didn’t know. A struggle he hadn’t been part of. A truth about to destroy his flawless plan.
“I need to get out,” he muttered, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“What? Alexandre! We’ll be late to the ceremony!” Clara shouted.
But he was already out of the car.
The summer heat hit him like a slap—gasoline and hot asphalt replacing artificial air.
He walked toward the bus stop like a sleepwalker.
Beatriz looked up.
Their eyes met.
No surprise in hers.
Only an old, deep resignation—as if she had feared and expected this moment every day for three years.
In that instant, with the city roaring around him and his fiancée screaming his name from the luxury car, Alexandre knew the man he had been until a minute ago was about to die.
“Beatriz,” he said, his voice rough and unfamiliar.