Chapter 1 — The Red Square

Elena Martín knew that something had ended before anyone said a word.

The wedding hall of the Santa Aurelia Palace shimmered under crystal chandeliers, with cream arches, gilded moldings, and hundreds of candles reflecting on the dark floor. Waiters moved among tables draped in white. The orchestra played a slow piece. At first glance, everything seemed exactly as she had imagined it over the past year.

Except for Diego.

The man she had just married was less than ten meters away, his back to her, laughing with Lucía Ferrer. Lucía was wearing a dark burgundy dress, her honey-blonde hair loose over her shoulders. Diego raised his black cell phone, leaned close to hers, and took a selfie. Lucía placed her hand on his chest with a familiarity that was anything but casual.

Elena felt like the air was stuck in her throat.

It wasn’t the photograph that hurt her. It was Diego’s expression. That carefree smile was the same one he’d used when he convinced her he would never hide anything from her again.

Three weeks earlier, Elena had found a printed email in her office addressed to Lucía. Diego said it was a family business transaction. Two days later, she saw a transfer from a company she didn’t recognize. Diego smiled again and asked her to trust him.

That night, in front of two hundred guests, the confidence seemed like a private joke.

Diego lowered his phone. The music changed. Lucía whispered something in his ear, and he responded by leaning towards her. Then they started to dance.

Elena did not cry immediately.

First she noticed the heat behind her eyes. Then, the dry pain under her sternum. Finally, a tear rolled down her cheek.

—Elena—whispered her friend Marta, placing a hand on her arm—. Do you want to go out?

Elena looked at the object she was holding against the skirt of her dress.

A pale beige rectangular frame. Inside, a completely white panel. In the exact center, a tiny red square.

Nothing else.

There was no name. There was no date. There was no explanation.

For years, that object had remained wrapped in cloth inside one of her father’s boxes. Elena had found it four days before the wedding, along with a note containing a single sentence: “If the Salvatierras ever tell you that your father lost everything through incompetence, show them this.”

His father had been dead for six years.

Until that week, Elena had believed that the phrase was the last vestige of an old business feud.

Now she wasn’t sure anymore.

He took a deep breath.

A waiter walked by. Marta stopped him and took the wireless microphone that the master of ceremonies had used during the toasts.

—You don’t have to do anything —Marta said.

Elena held his gaze.

—Yes. This time, yes.

He received the microphone with his right hand.

At first, no one noticed her. The music continued for a few seconds. Then the technician saw that Elena had moved to the center of the room and lowered the volume.

The talks stopped.

Diego and Lucía continued dancing for a little while longer.

Elena raised the microphone.

—Forgive me. Before this evening ends, I need to ask a question to a family who have been telling me for years that my father died ruined by his own mistakes.

Diego stopped.

Lucia too.

Elena lifted the frame with her left hand.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Diego’s smile disappeared.

Lucia opened her mouth.

Three tables away, Tomás Salvatierra, the younger brother of the family group’s late founder, dropped his napkin. He was fifty-eight years old, with graying hair and the habit of speaking as if every room belonged to him.

He pushed himself up on the arms of the golden chair and stood up.

—Where did you get that from?

The voice echoed through the room.

Diego looked at his uncle.

Then to Elena.

Then to the small red square.

Elena felt something unexpected. Not relief. Not victory.

Confirmation.

That object meant something.

“From my father’s box,” he replied.

Thomas turned pale.

Lucia took a step back.

Diego walked towards Elena.

—We can talk about this in private.

“I’ve been talking about it privately for years,” she said. “Every time I ask what happened to Valdemora, someone changes the subject.”

Valdemora.

The name produced a subtle change among the older guests.

Elena saw it.

Several looked away.

One of his father’s former associates raised the glass to his lips without drinking.

Tomás left his table.

—Elena, lower that frame.

-Because?

—Because you don’t know what you’re doing.

She felt her heart pounding.

—Then explain it to me.

Tomás stopped in the middle of the room.

Behind him, Diego clenched his jaw.

Lucia seemed to have stopped breathing.