He did it for a reason that sounded almost childish: he wanted to surprise his fiancée with a romantic gesture reminiscent of “the good old days,” as if money could turn back time and bring lightness back to life.
But Javier didn’t live a light life.
In Mexico, his last name was a master key. Grupo Mendoza wasn’t just a chain of luxury hotels: it was a symbol. Twenty-two properties between Cancún, Los Cabos, Mexico City, Guadalajara, and a few international destinations. His grandfather had built it brick by brick since the 1950s. His father inherited it and turned it into a modern empire. And Javier… Javier received it at twenty-three, the same night a heart attack took his father without a goodbye.
He could still see that hospital corridor: white lights, the smell of disinfectant, the sound of his aunt’s heels clicking as she ran after him. “You’re late,” they told him. And that phrase haunted him for thirteen years. He was late to everything: his youth, his friends, his passions, his own peace of mind.
He dreamed of being an architect. He sketched buildings on napkins while others talked about investments. But fate thrust a suit and a firm into his path. Suddenly, the lives of thousands of employees depended on his decisions. He learned to read balance sheets like someone learning to read a heart: searching for invisible flaws before it breaks.
People admired him. They envied him. They pursued him.
And in matters of love, Javier was weary. He had met women who fell in love with his penthouse before his voice. Others fled from the weight of his last name, as if dating him were like signing a contract.
Until Valeria Ruiz appeared.
He met her at a charity gala in a Polanco hotel. She was thirty-two, elegant without being over the top, with a gentle smile and intelligent conversation. She worked as an event coordinator for a luxury firm. When they were introduced, Javier didn’t ask her about his hotels. She didn’t ask about his fortune. She talked to him about Latin American art, jazz, literature. Suddenly, he felt… seen.
He fell in love not like a man used to controlling everything, but like someone who has spent too long holding up a world: with quiet desperation.
The first six months were a breath of fresh air. Valeria was affectionate without being demanding, present without being intrusive. They laughed, traveled, and cooked together whenever Javier could escape his meetings. He began to believe that, finally, life was giving him something back.
Then came the fog. Subtle. Almost gentle.
Valeria started mentioning jewelry she “loved,” restaurants “she dreamed of trying,” destinations “that were a unique experience.” Nothing direct, nothing vulgar. All wrapped in smiles and casual remarks. Javier justified it: “She likes beautiful things. It doesn’t mean anything.”
But every time he suggested a movie night at home, she seemed disappointed. Every time he talked about work, she looked at him as if he were stealing something from her.
Even so, Javier held on. Because admitting it would mean accepting that perhaps he was repeating the same pattern: believing they loved him, when in reality they loved the world that came with him.
Six months earlier, Javier had proposed to her on a trip to Europe. Not in Paris, like in the movies, but on a rooftop in Madrid, with the city lights and the warm spring breeze. Valeria cried, said yes, her hands trembling. Javier felt that he was finally building a home, not a hotel.
The wedding started with a huge budget and ended up being a monstrosity. What was supposed to be intimate became a spectacle. What was supposed to cost “reasonably” tripled. Every objection Javier raised was met with arguments that sounded logical… until you realized they always ended up the same: more luxury, more “important” guests, more glitz.
And yet, he gave in. Because he wanted to see her happy. Because he thought that’s what love was: compromise.
The idea for the disguise came to him one Friday morning, like a silly spark. The family’s trusted driver, Don Nacho, took the day off for his grandson’s birthday. Valeria called: she wanted to go shopping with her two friends, Pamela and Carmina.
Javier, exhausted from weeks of meetings, felt a strange impulse: he wanted to see her “unfiltered.” He wanted to hear her real laugh, her spontaneity, her world. And he also wanted to surprise her, as if he could recapture genuine emotion.
So he did.
A plain white shirt, black pants, a simple jacket. A cap, sunglasses. He practiced a neutral voice. He called from an alternate number. He introduced himself as “the replacement.”
Valeria didn’t even ask his name.
At five o’clock, Javier parked a black SUV in front of the building in Polanco. Valeria and Pamela came out first, laughing, laden with shopping bags. Valeria was wearing a dress he had bought her, a handbag that cost more than many people earned in a year. Javier went downstairs to open the door for them. Neither of them really looked at him. He was just part of the scenery: useful
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