Seven years after the divorce, Alejandro never imagined he would see his ex-wife like that.

Mariana was crouched near the boutique entrance, gathering scattered banknotes from the floor. She didn’t rush. She didn’t look embarrassed. She moved carefully, not because she needed the money, but because she didn’t want it smearing the flawless marble beneath her knees. When she finished, she placed the bills neatly on the rim of a nearby trash bin and straightened up.

“You should keep them,” she said calmly. “You’re going to need that money more than I will.”

Alejandro stiffened.

There was no bitterness in her voice. No accusation. No trace of desperation. That composure unsettled him far more than anger ever could.

“Still pretending to be dignified?” he scoffed, turning to Camila. “See? They stay poor, but the pride never leaves.”

Camila laughed lightly and tightened her grip around his arm, her gaze lingering on Mariana with open disdain.

Then something shifted.

A group of men in tailored black suits entered the lobby. At their center walked an older gentleman with silver hair, his posture authoritative, his expression measured. Behind him followed several executives—and members of the press team.

The mall manager hurried forward and bowed deeply.

“Mrs. Mariana, everything is prepared. The presentation will begin in three minutes.”

The lobby fell completely silent.

Alejandro’s face drained of color.

“Mrs… Mariana?” he repeated, his voice barely audible.

Mariana inclined her head once.

She placed the cleaning cloth back on the cart and removed her gloves with deliberate ease. An assistant stepped forward and draped a white blazer over her shoulders. The transformation was immediate.

In seconds, the cleaner vanished.

The woman standing before Alejandro now held herself differently—hair loose, shoulders straight, gaze steady and unreadable.

The gray-haired man stepped forward and addressed the room.

“It is my honor to introduce Mrs. Mariana Ortega, founder of the fashion house Fénix de Fuego and principal investor behind tonight’s exclusive collection.”

Alejandro took an unsteady step back.

Behind Mariana, displayed beneath spotlights, was the red dress adorned with rubies—the same one he had dismissed moments earlier. The designer’s plaque beneath it bore her name.

Mariana turned toward him and smiled.

It was not the fragile smile he remembered from seven years ago.

“You said I wasn’t enough for you,” she said evenly. “And just a few minutes ago, you said I would never be able to touch this dress.”

She raised her hand.

The staff opened the display case.

Mariana ran her fingers across the red fabric with practiced grace. The lighting ignited the stones, bathing the lobby in a glow that felt almost like fire.

“It’s unfortunate,” she murmured. “Because the only person who no longer has the right to touch any of this… is you.”

Alejandro’s phone vibrated violently in his pocket.

A message from his secretary appeared on the screen.

Sir, our strategic partner has withdrawn all funding. They’ve signed an exclusive agreement with Ms. Mariana Ortega.

Before he could react, Camila released his arm.

“You told me you were about to become vice president,” she snapped. “Was that a lie too?”

She turned and walked away, her heels striking the marble floor with sharp, unforgiving echoes.

Mariana passed by Alejandro without slowing.

She didn’t look at him.

She left only one sentence behind, soft and almost kind:

“Thank you… for letting me go back then.”

Alejandro remained frozen in the center of the lobby, surrounded by luxury, camera flashes, and whispered reactions—trapped inside a reality he never imagined he would have to face.