She stood near the window, perfectly composed, as if she had stepped out of a magazine. High heels. A tailored dress. Perfume so expensive it arrived before she did.
She turned when she heard the door.
I stopped a few steps away.
“Claudia,” I replied evenly. “There’s no need to pretend.”
For a brief moment, something flickered in her eyes. Then the smile returned, practiced and polished. She moved closer, arms half-open, waiting for a hug that never came.
We sat down side by side.
She crossed her legs with elegance, already acting as if she belonged there. As if fifteen years of silence could be erased by showing up well dressed.
The notary, Julián Ortega, entered with a thick folder under his arm.
“We can begin,” he said.
Claudia straightened her posture immediately. I could almost see her counting figures in her head, already imagining what she believed would be hers.
“Mr. Andrés Varela left very clear instructions regarding his estate.”
Claudia exhaled softly, satisfied.
“However,” he continued, “the inheritance will not be distributed immediately.”
Her fingers paused on the armrest.
“Not immediately?” she asked. “Why not?”
“It is conditional,” Julián replied.
She frowned, clearly annoyed.
