Davi tries one last time to salvage control.
He steps toward Lídia, lowering his voice, attempting the old charm like a man reaching for a tool that used to work.
“Lídia,” he murmurs, “please. We can handle this privately. I’ll pay more. I’ll
Lídia lifts a hand and stops him.
Her voice is quiet, but it cuts.
“You don’t get to bargain with the person you abandoned,” she says.
“And you don’t get to call it ‘private’ when you made my pain public.”
Security escorts Davi away from the ballroom as reporters circle like sharks that smell blood.
Bianca stands alone at the altar, blinking fast, trying not to cry in front of people who’d sell her tears for clicks.
And Lídia, in her wheelchair, is rolled gently out to the terrace, where the ocean wind is cooler and honest.
You follow her outside, not as Davi, not as Bianca, not as a guest.
You follow as someone who can’t pretend they didn’t witness something seismic.
Lídia looks up at the sky, eyes closed, breathing shallowly.
The night air fills her lungs like a small miracle.
