When my father said Grupo Herrera wanted to meet us, Mateo looked down so quickly that the movement felt louder than the phone call itself. He had always been controlled, almost unreadable, the kind of man who could stand in a crowded restaurant while people insulted me and still keep his face calm enough to look carved from stone. But that night, in the hallway of the house Diego Luján had chosen for our future marriage, one name broke his mask. Herrera. I held the phone tighter and watched him. My father kept talking on the other end, relieved, almost breathless. The Luján money had arrived in full. The agreement that had chained me to Diego for two years was finally complete. And now another group, stronger and cleaner than the Lujáns, wanted to offer an alliance.
The Night My Fiancé Put His Mistress in My Chair
