The blistering afternoon sun beat down on the corrugated iron roofs of the neighborhood, but in Marisa's workshop, the air seemed lighter, almost suspended. It was a small apartment cluttered with fabric remnants, spools of multicolored thread, and wooden mannequins that seemed to stand guard. Isadora was sitting on a stool, watching her godmother handle the scissors with surgical precision.
— So, Saturday night at the Jáureguis'... Marisa murmured without taking her eyes off her work. You don't waste any time, my dear.
— Time is the only currency I cannot afford to waste, Nana, Isadora replied, stroking a piece of raw silk lying on the table. Alejandro Jáuregui is not just a rich man. He is an institution. Entering his home is like crossing the border into another country.
Marisa stopped and looked up at her protégé. She saw in her that mixture of determination and coldness that sometimes worried her, but which she deeply admired. She knew what it was to be a woman alone in a man's world, and she knew that for Isadora, beauty was nothing more than a tool.
— For this reception, you need something different, the seamstress said, standing up to search through an antique wardrobe. The black dress from the other night was made to intrigue. The one for Saturday must show that you are already one of them, while remaining inaccessible.
She pulled out a piece of forest green fabric, so dark it appeared black in the shadows, but which revealed emerald highlights under direct light. Exactly the color of Isadora's eyes.
— This is a silk my husband brought back for me from a trip, a long time ago, Marisa confided with a hint of nostalgia. I was saving it for a special occasion. I believe that occasion has arrived.
Isadora stood up and approached. She felt the softness of the fabric against her fingers.
— It is magnificent, Nana. Thank you.
— Don't thank me yet. We are going to have to work day and night to have it ready. And Isadora... be careful. Those people... they have secrets as deep as their vaults. Do not let Alejandro see your game too soon and protect yourself.
While Isadora and Marisa began pinning the fabric, a few kilometers away, in the ultra-residential neighborhood of Lomas de Chapultepec, the atmosphere was very different.
The Jáuregui mansion was a fortress of glass, steel, and volcanic stone. In the center of the great living room, Camila Jáuregui supervised the installation of the decorations for the evening. Florists were busy arranging hundreds of white orchids in minimalist crystal vases.
— No, not there, Camila said in a somewhat weary voice. Alejandro hates it when the view of the garden is obstructed. Move them back a few centimeters.
Camila rubbed her temples. Organizing these receptions was her only real responsibility, a task she performed with a rigor born of the fear of displeasing her brother. Since the death of their parents, Alejandro had become her pillar, but also her voluntary jailer. Every detail of the house had to reflect the power and mastery of the Jáuregui lineage.
— You look tired, little sister.
She jumped. Alejandro was standing on the mezzanine, observing her with that analytical gaze that let nothing pass. He descended the stairs with feline grace, his phone in his hand.
— Everything will be ready, Alejandro, she hurried to say. I chose a clean theme. The guests will appreciate it.
— The guests, yes... he replied in an absent tone. And your friend? The one from the other night? Isadora Perez. Will she be there?
Camila was surprised by her brother's interest. Alejandro never asked questions about her social circle, which he often judged to be too insignificant.
— I... I don't really know, and besides, she and I aren't really friends, we just talked briefly. Why?
— She has a sharp mind, he said simply. It's refreshing in this desert of conventions. Make sure she is well received if she comes.
Camila watched her brother walk away toward his office. She felt a sting of jealousy, but also of curiosity.
Isadora had succeeded in a single conversation in doing what most of the city's young women had been trying to do for years: intrigue Alejandro Jáuregui.
Back in the Colonia Obrera, the contrast was striking. Isadora had returned home to take care of the household chores, a requirement from her mother to "compensate" for her outings. She was washing the kitchen floor, hands plunged into soapy water, while Josefina monitored the cooking of the stew.
— You should be careful not to break a nail, Josefina shot back with biting irony. That would be a shame for your grand manners.
— My hands are strong, Mama. They have been since I started helping Papa at the garage, I am not lazy. A little soap and water isn't going to scare me.
— Then why this need to always want more? her mother asked, turning toward her, her face marked by bitterness. We have a roof, Isadora. Your father works hard and your sister does her best at high school. Why can't you just be content with what God has given us?
Isadora straightened up, wiping her hands on her apron. Her green eyes burned with an intensity that Josefina could no longer bear.
— Because God does not ask us to die in poverty and I refuse to spend my days counting pennies and praying that the roof doesn't collapse. If you are satisfied with this mediocrity, that is your choice. But do not blame me for wanting to breathe air that doesn't smell of dust and despair.
— You are prideful, Isadora. And pride comes before a fall. One day, these rich people will throw you away like an old rag when they are finished playing with you. And on that day, don't come crying into your mother's skirts.
— Don't worry, Isadora replied coldly. The day I fall, I'll make sure I have enough money to buy my own handkerchief.
She left the kitchen to take refuge in her bedroom. She found Mia there, sitting on her bed, drawing quietly in a notebook. Mia looked up and smiled at her.
— Is she still angry?
— She is always angry with me, Mia.
— I love you just as you are, Mia whispered.
Isadora softened for a moment and stroked her sister's hair.
— One day, Mia, I will take you far away from here. You will have a room of your own, with windows that actually close.
— You promise?
— I swear it to you.
The rest of the week passed in a silent frenzy. Between classes at the university, where she superbly ignored Julian Vaca's attempts at discussion, and the late-night fitting sessions at Marisa's, Isadora slept little. Julian, for his part, was seething. He saw Isadora moving further and further away, not physically, but mentally. She was there, in the front row, taking impeccable notes, but her mind already seemed elsewhere, in a sphere where he had no invitation.
Friday night, the dress was finally finished. Marisa had Isadora try it on one last time. The result was staggering. The green silk hugged every curve, creating a silhouette that was both elegant and dangerous. Isadora looked at herself in the workshop's large mirror, the only mirror without spots she knew.
— You are ready, Marisa said in a low voice.
— Yes, I am ready.
The following evening, as the first luxury cars began to climb the hill toward the Jáuregui mansion, Isadora stood before her own mirror, at home.
She applied a touch of dark lipstick, adjusted her wavy black hair, and took a deep breath.
Pablo entered the room. He said nothing, but his eyes grew misty. He took a small case from his pocket.
— This belonged to my mother, he said.
He opened the case to reveal a small silver brooch in the shape of a feather. It was not a piece of jewelry of great market value, but for Isadora, it was a symbol of love. She pinned it to the side of her dress.
— Thank you, Papa.
She went down the stairs, leaving behind her mother's reproaches. At the bottom, Luisa was waiting for her in a red sports car, impatient.
— Off to the castle, Isadora! Luisa cried out.
Isadora settled into the leather seat and watched the dark streets of her neighborhood recede in the rearview mirror.