Chapter 9
The rain in S?o Paulo didn’t wash my soul clean; it drowned it.
I don’t know how many hours I wandered aimlessly through the steep, tree-lined streets of Morumbi.
Time ceased to exist the moment the mansion’s iron gates closed behind me.
The darkness of dawn swallowed me whole.
The cold wasn’t just a physical sensation; it was a sharp blade that cut through my wet skin, penetrated my bones, and settled deep in the center of my chest.
My bare feet—for my shoes had been lost in the brutal fall onto the sidewalk—treaded on the uneven asphalt, cutting themselves on the stones and shards of glass that the storm had swept through the gutters.
With every step, a sharp pang of pain shot up my legs, but I didn’t stop.
The fear of freezing to death if I stood still was the only primal force keeping my body moving.
The light-colored linen dress, which just hours earlier had been the symbol of my new life, was now nothing more than a wretched rag.
The fine fabric was torn at the hems, soaked with dirty water, mud, and the dark blood of the woman who had hated me until her last breath.
I could smell the metallic scent of blood mixed with the pollution in the rain—a constant reminder of the nightmare from which I couldn’t wake up.
I passed tall walls, armored guardhouses, and electric fences. The mansions in that neighborhood looked like impenetrable fortresses, built to keep the real world out. I never belonged there. The icy asphalt beneath my bleeding feet made a point of reminding me of that with every meter I walked.
As the storm raged around me, my mind played tricks on me. The silence of my solitude was replaced by voices from the past. They were the voices of people I’d left behind in the Northeast—my fellow maids at the resort—and even the silent glances that crossed mine on the streets of S?o Paulo.
“Do you really think an heir like Eduardo Vasconcelos is going to marry a starving girl like you, Maria Rita?”
The voice of a former coworker echoed in my head, mingling with the sound of thunder. I remember laughing at the time and defending my prince, saying that his love knew no bounds, that our meeting was a matter of souls destined to be together.
“Rico plays around, Maria, enchanted by the novelty. But when the water reaches their necks, men like him run back to their castles and lock the gates. Oil and water don’t mix.”
A loud, painful sob escaped my throat, piercing the cold of the street.
They were right. All of them were absolutely right, and I was the fool who believed in fairy tales.
I believed that love would be enough to bridge the chasm between us.
I believed that the devotion in Eduardo’s gaze each morning would be able to weather any storm.
But all it took was a trap set by his family’ ’s prejudice and the first hint of suspicion for him to throw me to the lions without even giving me the benefit of the doubt.
The Eduardo who walked barefoot with me on the beach, who kissed my calloused hands with reverence, no longer existed.
The one who threw me onto the sidewalk as if I were a bag of toxic trash was the ruthless CEO.
The arrogant heir who, deep down, always believed that his money had bought my gratitude, not my soul.
I hugged myself, trembling in violent convulsions, as the rain subsided, giving way to a fine, stinging drizzle.
The sky lightened along the horizon. It wasn’t a golden, poetic sunrise like the one on the beach on my wedding day. It was the dawn in S?o Paulo: gray, oppressive, a dense leaden haze that hid the sun.
The streets came to life. The first buses rumbled down the wider avenues, and car headlights cut through the morning gloom.
I walked down the hills of the wealthy neighborhood, moving away from the mansions, until I reached a busy avenue.
I was a pathetic ghost wandering through the metropolis.
Some people drove by and turned their faces away, startled.
Others looked at me with pity or disgust. I knew the image I projected: a beggar, a madwoman, covered in mud and blood, with matted hair and a face disfigured by tears.
No one stopped. In the big city, other people’s despair is just part of the scenery.
My legs finally gave out.
I reached an empty bus stop, covered by a small, dirty acrylic awning. I let my body slide down the cold metal rail until I fell into a seated position on the concrete bench. I pulled my legs up to my chest, hiding my face between my knees, trying to preserve what little warmth I had left.
There were no more tears. The well had run dry, leaving behind only utter desolation, a pain so vast that it numbed even the beating of my heart.
I had hit rock bottom. My reputation destroyed, accused of murder, hated by the only man I ever loved, and left to fend for myself in a concrete jungle I didn’t know. The fairy tale was over, and the monster in the story wasn’t a wicked witch; it was Prince Charming himself.
Huddled on that icy bench, listening to the deafening noise of the city waking up, oblivious to my misery, I closed my eyes, defeated, hoping that the darkness would finally take me away.