Elena looked at her new husband.
—Do you know what it means?
Diego took too long to reply.
It was just a second.
But Elena knew him.
That second was enough.
—Diego.
He lowered his voice.
—Not here.
Elena let out a short, broken laugh.
—Today you asked me to share my entire life with you in front of everyone. And this can’t be discussed here?
Marta stood beside him.
Nobody else moved.
Then Tomás said something that disturbed the atmosphere in the room.
—That frame should have disappeared twenty years ago.
Elena felt that the microphone suddenly felt as heavy as iron.
Diego closed his eyes.
Lucia murmured:
—Tomás, shut up.
But it was too late.
Elena slowly lowered the frame.
His father had not kept a memento.
He had kept a threat to himself.
And her husband, the man who had just promised her a life without secrets, recognized her.
Tomás took another step towards her.
—Dámelo.
Elena stepped back.
—No.
The music had stopped completely.
All that could be heard was the hum of the air conditioner and the faint clinking of a poorly placed glass.
Tomás looked at Diego.
—Do something.
Diego did not obey.
For the first time, he seemed caught between two loyalties.
Elena pressed the frame against her chest.
—Nobody is going to touch him.
Thomas fixed his eyes on her.
—You have no idea what your father hid.
Elena stared at him without blinking.
—Then start by telling me why you’re so afraid of a red square.
Thomas opened his mouth.
And before I could answer, the lights in the living room went out.
Everything went black.
A scream arose near the tables.
Elena felt a hand brush against her arm.
And when the emergency lights came on five seconds later, the frame was no longer in his hands.
Chapter 2 — Four Days Earlier
Four days before the wedding, Elena didn’t know that the red square existed.
She was in Madrid, sitting on the floor of her father’s old studio, looking for a folder with the deeds to a family plot of land. The house had remained almost untouched since the death of Julián Martín, an architect and property developer, a man who had spent his last years trying to rebuild a reputation shattered after his company went bankrupt.
Diego had insisted that they sell that house after they got married.
“It makes no sense to pay taxes and maintenance for a place where nobody lives,” he had said.
Elena agreed. Or thought she did.
She opened the bottom drawer of the desk and found a wooden box she didn’t recognize. It had no lock. Inside were old papers, a watch without a strap, and a package wrapped in linen.
The frame appeared from under the canvas.
Light beige. White panel. A tiny red square in the center.
Elena watched him for several seconds.
It didn’t seem valuable.
It didn’t even look finished.
Behind it he found an envelope with his name on it.
He immediately recognized his father’s handwriting.
“Elena:
If the Salvatierra family ever tells you that your father lost everything due to incompetence, show them this.
Don’t trust anyone who asks you to destroy something they don’t understand.
Dad.”
Nothing else.
Elena remained motionless.
The Salvatierra family.
Diego’s family.
For six years, he had tried not to mix those two parts of his life.
His father and the Salvatierra family had been partners in the Valdemora project, a hotel and residential complex on the coast of Cádiz. Julián contributed the land and the design. The Salvatierra family provided the capital.
The project failed.
Debts dragged down Julian’s company.
The Salvatierra family survived.
His father never recovered from the blow.
Diego had always said that it was a bad operation.
“Our parents went into business. Sometimes things go wrong,” he assured her the first time Elena asked.
She wanted to believe it.
When she met Diego two years after Julián’s death, she didn’t immediately connect him to the old feud. Diego worked in the group’s hotel division and had built his own reputation. He was attentive, intelligent, and seemingly embarrassed by his family’s arrogance.
That was one of the reasons why Elena fell in love with him.
The sound of the doorbell pulled her from her thoughts.
It was Marta Ruiz, her best friend and graphic designer, who came to pick up some boxes to take to Seville.
Elena showed him the frame.
Marta frowned.
—It looks like concept art by an angry student.
Elena smiled, but the joke did not dispel her unease.
—My father wanted me to show it to the Salvatierra family.
—Diego too?
Elena did not respond.
That same afternoon he called Fernando Lozano, his father’s former lawyer.
The man took a few seconds to speak when Elena described the setting.
