Marry the Spare, Not the Heir

Chapter 6

Friday arrived faster than Camila expected.

She stood in front of the mirror in the guesthouse, smoothing down the blue dress Diego had asked for, the one his mother loved. She almost laughed at how easily she could still perform this, sliding the zipper up, fastening the small pearl earrings he'd given her two Christmases ago, arranging her face into the soft, pleasant expression she'd worn for five years without ever questioning why.

Her phone buzzed. Diego.

'Running behind, meet me there. Car's already outside for you.'

Of course, she thought. He hadn't come to pick her up once since the accident.

The car ride to the Alvarado estate was quiet, the driver polite but distant, and Camila spent the whole drive rehearsing the version of herself she needed to be tonight. Composed. Pleasant. Unreadable.

The gala was already in full swing when she arrived, the ballroom glittering with chandelier light, waitstaff moving between clusters of guests in tailored suits and gowns. Camila spotted Diego's parents near the center of the room and made her way toward them.

"Camila, dear." Rosa Alvarado embraced her warmly, the way she always did, entirely unaware of the fracture spreading beneath the surface of her son's engagement. "How are you feeling? We heard about the accident."

"I'm managing," Camila said, and meant it more literally than Rosa could know.

"Where's Diego?" Rosa glanced around the room. "He said he'd be right behind you."

"He should be here soon."

Camila excused herself and drifted toward the edge of the room, accepting a glass of wine from a passing waiter, watching the crowd shift and murmur around her.

She saw Diego enter fifteen minutes later.

He wasn't alone.

Valentina walked beside him, her hand resting lightly at his elbow, laughing softly at something he'd said. She wore deep red, striking against the crowd's muted golds and blues, and for a moment the entire room seemed to notice them at once.

Camila's grip tightened around the stem of her glass, but her face stayed still. She had known this was coming. She had simply not expected it to arrive so plainly, so publicly, so soon.

"Diego." Richard Alvarado's voice carried an edge as his son approached. "Why is she here?"

Diego's easy smile faltered slightly. "Dad, let me explain."

"You brought her to the family gala," Richard said. "While your fiancée stands right there."

Heads turned. Conversations dimmed.

Valentina lowered her eyes, playing the picture of humility perfectly, and murmured something about not wanting to cause trouble, about only having come because Diego insisted she needed the company after everything she'd been through.

Camila watched the performance with a strange, clinical detachment. She recognized it now, the way Valentina's voice softened just enough to sound wounded, the way her hand found Diego's arm again like she couldn't help herself.

It used to be me who did that, Camila thought. I used to believe that softness meant something.

Rosa's eyes moved between her son and the unfamiliar woman, confusion and concern warring on her face, before finally landing on Camila.

"Camila, I'm so sorry," Rosa said quietly. "I don't understand what's happening."

"It's alright," Camila said, and her calm surprised even herself. "Diego can explain it better than I can."

Diego shot her a look, something between confusion and warning, clearly unprepared for her composure. He had expected tears. He had expected a scene he could smooth over with a practiced apology. Instead she stood there, glass in hand, entirely unreadable, and it visibly unsettled him.

"Camila," he said, lowering his voice as he stepped closer. "Can we talk privately?"

"There's nothing to talk about," she said. "You brought her. Your parents can see exactly what that means."

"It's not what it looks like."

"It's exactly what it looks like," Camila said. "I just didn't expect you to be so obvious about it."

Something flickered across his face, and for the first time since she'd known him, Camila watched Diego search for words and find none.

Across the room, Valentina's gaze met Camila's, and the softness in her expression sharpened for the briefest instant, something calculating passing between them before dissolving back into practiced sweetness the moment Rosa turned to look at her.

She knows I know, Camila thought. And she isn't afraid of me at all.

"Excuse me," Camila said, setting her glass down on a nearby table. "I think I'll head home early. I'm still recovering, after all."

She didn't wait for Diego to respond. She turned and walked toward the exit, her heels silent against the marble floor, every eye in the room following her leave.

Behind her, she heard Rosa's voice rising, sharp and confused, demanding an explanation from her son. She didn't turn back to hear his answer.

For the first time in five years, Camila walked out of a room Diego was standing in, and didn't feel a single urge to look back.