That was when everything changed.
Three black limousines were lined up perfectly in front of the church, their polished surfaces reflecting the dull sky. They did not belong there by accident. They were precise. Intentional.
His face drained of color.
“Who are those men?” he whispered.
The doors opened in unison.
Men stepped out wearing dark suits tailored to perfection. Their movements were synchronized, controlled. These were not drivers hired for an afternoon. These were professionals who worked for people accustomed to privacy and power.
I leaned closer to my husband, lowering my voice.
“They work for me,” I said.
The words landed heavily between us.
Tomás stepped back, his confusion edged with fear.
“Mrs. Hall,” he said respectfully. “We are at your service.”
Mrs. Hall.
Not Llorente.
Hall.
My father’s name.
The name he always told me to carry with pride.
In that moment, I understood that my father hadn’t just left behind memories.
Something protected.
Something hidden.
And my life, the one I thought I knew, was already slipping away.
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