The husband who rejected me (Letters to broken hearts #3)

Prologue

The sun was beginning to kiss the horizon, pouring a cascade of gold, orange, and soft pink over the serene waters of the sea.

The sky looked like a Renaissance painting, vast and flawless, but nothing there captured my attention more than the sound of the waves breaking gently on the white sand.

My bare feet sank into the fine, cool grains—a sensation so different from the dry, parched, and unforgiving earth that marked every day of my childhood in the countryside of the Northeast.

The warm late-afternoon breeze played with the loose strands of my hair, which had been meticulously styled by professionals who charged more for an hour of work than I earned in an entire year of hard labor.

The lightweight fabric—pure silk and French lace—of my wedding dress fluttered around me as if I were made of clouds.

It was a dress that bordered on the unreal.

For me, the girl who grew up wearing clothes handed down from older cousins—sewn and mended by the light of a kerosene lamp—wearing that work of art was the final proof that my old life was behind me.

I held the bouquet of white orchids with trembling hands, trying to take in the scent of the sea mingled with the sweet, expensive fragrance of the rare flowers.

I drew in the salty air, and closed my eyes for a fraction of a second to recall the unlikely path that had brought me there.

Just two years ago, I was invisible. I had left my small town in the sert?o, fleeing hunger and the searing void that my father’s death had left in our humble home.

With a tattered canvas suitcase and some crumpled savings in my pocket, I arrived at the coast in search of anything that would keep me from wasting away.

I landed a job as a housekeeper and waitress at one of the most luxurious resorts on the northeastern coast. My days were marked by the sound of cleaning carts in the hallways, the smell of chemicals on my hands, and the effort to smile while serving glasses of champagne to people who didn’t even look at my face.

I was just part of the scenery. A ghost in uniform who existed to ensure the comfort of heirs, business executives, and socialites.

Until the night he showed up.

The memory of our first encounter still made my stomach drop as butterflies took flight inside me.

It was a Saturday during peak season. The resort’s restaurant was packed with demanding guests, and I was rushing from one table to the next, balancing heavy trays.

In a moment of carelessness, exhausted after a twelve-hour shift, I bumped into an arrogant guest’s chair, spilling a few drops of red wine on his immaculate tablecloth.

The man stood up, livid, and humiliated me in front of everyone, calling me incompetent and threatening to have me fired.

It was then that a deep, firm, and utterly commanding voice cut through the room.

“That’s enough.”

I looked up and saw another man approaching.

He wasn’t just walking; he commanded the space.

He wore a light-colored linen suit, without a tie, which contrasted perfectly with his tanned skin and dark hair, slightly wavy and tousled by the sea breeze.

But it was his eyes that caught my attention.

They were a shade of brown so deep that they seemed to hold ancient secrets, and in that moment, they burned with an indignation that wasn’t directed at me, but at the man who was humiliating me.

“The mistake was minor, but your lack of manners is staggering,” he said to the enraged man, his voice dangerously calm. “If you raise your voice at this young lady one more time, I guarantee I’ll make sure the hotel management asks you to leave. Immediately.”

The entire lounge fell silent. The arrogant man, recognizing the power—or perhaps the bank account—of the man confronting him, wilted, mumbled a hollow apology, and sat down.

My savior turned to me. His expression changed instantly.

The harshness evaporated, giving way to a tenderness that utterly disarmed me.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped away a lone tear that had escaped down my cheek, and smiled.

A broad, confident smile that made my heart skip a beat.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and it was the first time in a long time that someone had truly wanted to know the answer.

“I’m… I’m fine, thank you, sir,” I stammered, taking a step back, intimidated by his overwhelming presence.

“Eduardo,” he corrected, holding out his hand. “My name is Eduardo. And yours?”

“Maria Rita.”

That was the beginning of my fairy tale. Eduardo was a businessman from S?o Paulo, heir to a real estate empire, who was in the Northeast to close deals and relax. He shouldn’t have looked at me. We belonged to different galaxies. However, ever since that night, he hasn’t looked at anyone else.

Eduardo started waiting for me at the end of my shifts.

We’d walk along the deserted beach in the moonlight, with the waves lapping at our feet.

He wanted to know everything about me. He listened to the stories of my childhood in the sert?o with fascination and respect—not pity, but deep admiration for my strength.

In return, he told me about the madness of S?o Paulo, about the weight of the responsibilities he carried at his company, and about how, when he was with me, he felt he could finally breathe.

He was the real Prince Charming from the stories I used to read in secret as a child.

Eduardo was cultured, kind, protective, and absurdly in love.

Within a few weeks, he moved me out of the cramped employee dormitory.

He showered me with gifts that I was too embarrassed to accept, but which he insisted on giving, arguing that “I deserved the world.” His love was a hurricane that swept away all my insecurities.

When his trip came to an end, he didn’t leave me behind.

He got down on one knee in the sand, with a ring that shone brighter than the stars in the northeastern sky, and begged me to go with him.

And in that moment, there we were.

I opened my eyes, returning to the present. A violin played a gentle melody, announcing that it was my turn.

I looked around. The makeshift altar facing the sea, beneath a rustic arch of branches and native flowers, was the perfect image of paradise.

The guests were seated in wooden chairs facing the woven straw walkway.

Most were his family and friends—S?o Paulo’s high society, who had flown in on their private jets and helicopters just to witness the heir’s “whim.”

I saw the haute couture dresses, the diamond-encrusted watches glistening in the setting sun, the designer sunglasses hiding judgmental glances.

However, for a moment, my gaze met that of his mother, seated in the front row.

Dona Eleonora. She was wearing an impeccable ice-blue ensemble.

Her posture was rigid and aristocratic. Her eyes pierced me for a second—cold, calculating, and laden with a polite disdain she barely bothered to conceal.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t nod. She simply stared at me as if I were a pest in her immaculate garden.

A quick chill ran down my spine, even in the heat of the beach. But I ignored it. I refused to let any shadow touch the brightest day of my life. Because, in the next moment, my gaze met his.

Eduardo was there, standing at the altar, and everything else ceased to exist.

He was wearing a linen suit that perfectly hugged his broad shoulders.

His hands were clasped in front of him, and when he saw me emerge at the far end of the beach, his shoulders relaxed and a dazzling smile softened his solemn expression.

My husband had tears in his eyes. The powerful man who commanded hundreds of people, intimidated shareholders, and dominated board meetings was crying for me. For the girl from the sert?o.

I took my first step down the aisle. With every step toward him, I felt as if I were leaving a piece of my painful past behind—the sleepless nights and my stomach growling with hunger, the blisters on my hands, the exhaustion that felt like it was breaking my bones, and the piercing loneliness.

Each step was a victory, a step upward toward an untouchable future.

When I finally reached the altar, Eduardo didn’t wait for the officiant to speak. He stepped forward, took both my hands, and brought them to his lips, kissing my knuckles with a devotion that made me hold my breath. His touch was warm and firm, my anchor in the midst of that whirlwind of emotions.

“You are the most beautiful dream I never knew I had, Maria Rita,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, breaking with protocol even before the ceremony had begun.

“And you are my miracle, Eduardo,” I replied, fighting back tears, feeling my throat tighten with a knot of pure happiness. “My safe haven.”

The ceremony unfolded like a perfectly choreographed dance.

The officiant’s words about souls meeting, about the invisible threads of fate that bind people from opposite worlds, seemed to have been written exclusively for us.

I recited my vows with a trembling voice, staring intently into the vast brown expanse of his eyes, promising to love him in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty—though poverty seemed like nothing more than a distant delusion, a legend from a life that was no longer mine.

When we exchanged rings, the cold, heavy metal of solid gold slid onto my ring finger, sealing our union. That gleaming band was more than a piece of jewelry; it was my shield. With it, I belonged to Eduardo’s family. I was his wife. Nothing and no one could ever hurt me again.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Eduardo didn’t waste a second. His large, warm hands gently cupped my face, as if I were made of rare porcelain.

He leaned in, blocking my view of the sea and the sun sinking below the horizon, and pressed his lips against mine.

It was a deep, passionate kiss that carried every promise of happily ever after.

The world around us erupted in polite applause, but to my ears, it sounded like the soundtrack to a triumph.

When we parted, breathless, he pressed his forehead against mine.

“Now you’re mine forever, Mrs. Vasconcelos,” he whispered against my lips, smiling.

“Forever,” I repeated, believing those words with every cell in my body.

During the party that followed, illuminated by thousands of yellowish lights suspended over the sand and beneath the starry sky, I danced in his arms. I spun around the wooden-floored ballroom set up on the beach, feeling like the most envied and beloved woman in the universe.

With every glass of champagne raised in our direction, with every stolen kiss he snatched from me in the middle of the crowd, my certainty only grew stronger.

Life was perfect. I had achieved the unattainable.

My heart overflowed with a peace I swore would last forever, blind to the dark clouds already beginning to gather above us, oblivious to the fact that the castle of dreams I had built stood on a foundation of quicksand and poison.

That night, with the scent of the sea and the warmth of his body against mine, I thought my suffering had come to an end.

I didn’t know it was only just about to begin.