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.
“You were brave,” someone whispers, and Lídia shakes her head.
“I was tired,” she corrects. “Tired is what makes you honest.”
Then she lets out a soft laugh that sounds like relief.
“And I still breathe.”
In the weeks after the wedding, Recife becomes a city of whispers and headlines.
Investigations open into Bianca’s foundation.
Davi’s real estate deals are audited, and investors who once called him “visionary” begin calling him “liability.”
His empire doesn’t fall in one day, but it begins to rot from the inside out, because truth is a slow fire.
Lídia uses the ten thousand reais exactly as she planned.
She pays for treatment.
She buys herself time.
She doesn’t waste a cent on revenge.
