People who only came to drink champagne suddenly remember they have morals when it benefits them.
A man in a linen suit steps forward, introducing himself as a reporter, voice polite and lethal.
“Mrs. Salles,” he says to Bianca, “could you comment on the foundation’s spending?”
Bianca’s face tightens, and she lifts her chin, trying to rebuild her mask.
But the mask doesn’t fit anymore.
Davi turns toward Lídia, anger shaking his voice.
“You wanted money, didn’t you? This is extortion.”
Lídia nods once, almost sadly.
“I wanted time,” she corrects. “And I wanted my truth to live longer than my body.”
Then she reaches into her bag, slow and deliberate, and pulls out a folder.
Paperwork, not messy, not dramatic, organized like a woman who spent nights preparing for war.
She holds it up for the room to see.
“Your coordinator made me sign a contract,” she says.
“It includes a clause that your people thought I wouldn’t read.”
She looks straight at Davi.
“It says I waive my right to speak publicly about the divorce, the abandonment, and any financial harm caused.”
A shocked gasp runs through the room.
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