She instinctively stepped slightly in front of the girls, like a lioness protecting her cubs.
“Alexandre.”
No hatred in her tone. Only a coldness that hurt more than insults.
One of the girls tugged at her mother’s skirt.
“Mommy… that man looks like us.”
The sentence fell like a verdict.
Alexandre’s knees nearly gave way.
He crouched down, ignoring that his three-thousand-dollar suit brushed the dirty pavement.
“What are their names?”
“Manuela and Alice,” Beatriz said firmly. “And yes. They’re yours.”
No doubt. No calculations.
The truth vibrated between them.
Clara arrived moments later, heels striking concrete, white dress glaring under the sun.
“Alexandre! What the hell are you doing? Who is this woman?”
Beatriz met Clara’s gaze with dignity money couldn’t buy.
“I’m nobody. Just someone waiting for the bus.”
Then to Alexandre: “Go back to your life. We already have ours.”
“No,” he said immediately.
He stood.
“There won’t be a wedding, Clara.”
The chaos that followed blurred—Clara screaming, the ring thrown against his chest, the car speeding away.
Alexandre stayed.
The bus arrived with a pneumatic hiss.
“Canceling a party is easy,” Beatriz said quietly. “Being a father is hard.”