Then, holding the edge of the bed and your shoulder, he took one step.
One.
His face twisted in pain.
You cried out, “Alejandro—”
“Again,” he said.
“No.”
“Again.”
He took another.
Then another.
Three steps.
Terrible, trembling, uneven steps.
The most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
He collapsed into the chair afterward, shaking so violently you wrapped a blanket around him. His face was wet, but he was smiling.
“Can you imagine her face?” he whispered.
You laughed through tears.
“Yes.”
But then he looked serious.
“I want to walk at the gala.”
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You are not ready.”
“I may never be ready enough.”
“They’ll stop you.”
“Not if the whole city is watching.”
You hated that he was right.
The gala became the deadline.
For two weeks, you trained harder than before. Not recklessly, but with purpose. Alejandro learned to stand from the chair using hidden support. He practiced shifting weight. He practiced walking five steps, then seven, then ten with a cane Don Chucho found and polished.
Every step cost him.
Pain left him pale. Exhaustion hollowed his face. Some nights he vomited from effort, then apologized to you like he had done something shameful.
You wanted to scream at the whole mansion.
But you did not.
You saved your anger for the plan.
The night before the gala, everything almost ended.
Ramiro, the butler, found the old phone.
Not the notebook. Not the main evidence.
But enough.
He caught you in the laundry room checking a video of Alejandro walking five steps along the bed. His face went rigid, and for one terrifying second, you thought he would call Doña Isabel.
Instead, he shut the door.
“Delete it,” he said.
You backed away. “No.”
“Girl, you have no idea what these people do when cornered.”
“I know what they do when no one stops them.”
Ramiro’s mouth tightened.
You expected anger.
You saw grief.
