“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.
Leonardo raised his voice so the room could enjoy it.
“Tell me—can you dance?”
Laughter erupted. Not warm laughter. The kind sharpened by superiority.
Dance. The word didn’t belong to her life anymore. It was stored away with old photographs and promises that never survived adulthood.
Leonardo wrapped an arm around Camila theatrically.
“If you dance well,” he said, savoring the pause, “I’ll leave her and marry you tonight.”
Phones came out. Someone began recording. Her humiliation found lighting and angles.
Camila laughed and nudged him playfully. “You’re awful.”
Sofia’s face burned. A young waiter whispered for her to walk away. She couldn’t move.
Leonardo stepped closer, invading her space, his expensive cologne overwhelming.
“I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars if you try.”
He extended his hand—half reward, half leash.
At that moment, the orchestra shifted into a Viennese waltz.
And the past came rushing in.
Fifteen years earlier. A mirrored studio. Pink tights. A little girl spinning, laughing. And a woman clapping with shining eyes.
“Stretch your arms, sweetheart. Yes—just like that.”
Helena Duarte. Her mother.