The next day, she asked for permission and went downtown.
The pawn shop smelled of desperation: people clutching bags, tired faces, trembling hands handing over pieces of their lives. When the appraiser took the chain, Patricia felt a pang in her chest.
“Good quality gold,” he said without emotion. “I can give five hundred pesos.”
With the money, she went to an area where wealthy women sold secondhand dresses as if they were disposable whims. In the third shop, she found it: a purple dress, with understated sequins, elegant without being ostentatious, like a starry night without excess. The saleswoman, a woman with a Buenos Aires accent, regarded her with a mixture of tenderness and experience.
—First gala, right? —he guessed.
Patricia nodded nervously.
—This one fits you perfectly. Size thirty-eight. It belonged to a businessman’s wife. She wore it once.
When Patricia tried it on, she stood still in front of the mirror. She didn’t see the cleaning lady. She saw a woman with poise, with lively eyes, with a beauty that had always been there, hidden beneath uniforms and weariness. The purple made her gaze glow.
“How much does it cost?” he asked, almost dreading the answer.
“Normally eight hundred,” said the saleswoman… and then lowered her voice. “But I’ll give it to you for four hundred and fifty. Something tells me you need it more.”
Patricia left wearing the dress as if she were carrying a secret. She bought simple sandals, had her hair done at a local salon, practiced her manners by watching videos, and rehearsed her smiles so she wouldn’t tremble. At work, Sebastián noticed her distraction.
She took a deep breath.
—Don’t worry, Mr. Vargas. I’ll be there.
Surprise crossed her face, slight but real. Patricia understood something in that moment: men like him fed on other people’s fear. And she had just refused him the plate.
The night before, her grandmother Guadalupe called from Oaxaca.
She had that voice that seemed to lull and command at the same time.
—My daughter… you sound strange. Are you okay?
Patricia tried to downplay it, but her grandmother always knew how to read her.
—I’m going to an important event, Grandma. And I’m nervous.
“Your mother worked as a maid her whole life,” she finally said, “but she had more class than many ladies wearing jewels. And you inherited that. Do you know who she worked for in the city?”
Patricia denied it, even though her grandmother couldn’t see her.
—For the Mendoza Reyes family. An important family. The lady of the house… greatly appreciated your mother. She said she was intelligent. Well-mannered. Your mother left proud, as always… but she left her mark.
The words stayed with Patricia like a talisman: “blood of nobility,” not because of her surname, but because of her character.
The day of the dance arrived with clear skies. Patricia bathed as if she wanted to shed the past, applied her makeup discreetly, gathered her hair into a low bun, and put on the purple dress. When she looked in the mirror, she swallowed hard. It wasn’t magic. It was a decision.
Sofia saw her come out and was speechless.
—You’re going to make him choke on his own poison.
At the country club, luxury cars spewed out men in tuxedos and women in extravagant dresses. Patricia stepped out of the ride-hailing vehicle and felt curious glances. A security guard checked her invitation, surprised not to see her arrive with a driver.
—Welcome, Miss Salazar.
Inside, the chandeliers, the imported flowers, the porcelain… everything seemed designed to remind some who belonged and others that they didn’t. Patricia walked slowly, holding her borrowed bag as if it were a compass.
And then she saw him: Sebastian, laughing with a group of men. When their eyes met, his smile faded like a candle. For the first time, she didn’t see the cleaning lady. She saw a woman.
Patricia approached.
—Good evening, Mr. Vargas.
“Did you… manage to come?” he stammered, trying to compose himself.
—You invited me.
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