Part 4 — Five years later I learned in French about my lover’s wedding, and when I smiled calmly, his friend turned pale

As soon as the third knock sounded on the door, silence fell over the room.

Adrian looked at Beatrice.

For the first time Beatrice could not hide her fear.

“Do not open it,” she whispered.

The lawyer opened the door anyway.

A middle-aged man entered. He was holding a wooden box whose corners were worn.

“I am Tomas Ferrer,” he said. “Adrian’s former financial adviser.”

Adrian pushed his chair back.

“You have no right to come here.”

“I have the right, because I was the one who created the documents you made me sign.”

Tomas placed the box on the table.

“And I was the one who decided that on the eve of your wedding I would no longer lie.”

Adrian looked at him threateningly.

“Be careful.”

“I was careful for five years. Now it is already too late.”

From the box he took three memory cards wrapped in papers. The lawyer immediately picked them up.

“Here are the financial records, calls, and the meetings at which you discussed the plan,” Tomas said. “The contract made out in your name was forged from the very beginning.”

Beatrice jumped to her feet.

“We knew nothing about the forgery.”

Tomas smiled bitterly.

“You knew that Lucia was supposedly poor and vulnerable. You knew that Adrian could access the accounts without her consent. You simply did not ask where the money came from.”

Adrian took out his phone.

“I am calling my lawyer.”

He dialed the number. The call rang several times and ended.

“Call again,” he told Beatrice.

Beatrice called her lawyer. A few seconds later there was no blood left in her face.

“He told me that he was withdrawing from the case.”

“What does withdrawing mean?” Adrian shouted.

“It means he is no longer protecting you.”

The lawyer put a second phone on the table and played a recording.

Adrian’s voice sounded in the room again.

“I will give Lucia everything she needs. She simply cannot have my surname.”

Then his laughter.

“She still will not find out. She does not know French. She cannot read financial documents either.”

Beatrice’s voice sounded in the recording.

“When will we transfer the money after the wedding?”

“As soon as she goes to Madrid. I will tell her that she must start a new life. Then her signature will already be enough.”

Adrian slowly sat down.

His own voice filled the room against him.

He listened to his own words and realized for the first time that he could blame no one. Neither French, nor my deceived name, nor a mistake.

He had said all of it himself.

“Lucia,” he said quietly. “I did not want it to turn out this way.”

“But this is how you planned it.”

“I loved you.”

“Perhaps you did love me. But in your love there was no place for my dignity.”

Outside, car horns and the sound of rain could be heard. A few minutes later investigators arrived. No one shouted. No one celebrated. They simply took the documents, asked Adrian questions, and told Beatrice that she could not leave the city.

Hugo stood by the wall and avoided my eyes.

“Lucia, I was only joking that evening.”

“Some jokes are a person’s true face.”

He could not find an answer.

Before leaving the building, Adrian looked at me once more.

“You will still come back to me.”

“No.”

“Five years cannot disappear in one day.”

“They do not disappear. They simply no longer take me back to where I was.”

Three days later I found my old home empty. Our photographs no longer stood in the living room. Only light squares of dust remained on the shelves. In the bedroom closet I found one thing—the small compass that I had held that night.

Adrian had once made fun of it.

“Do you really believe that you will find the way with this little thing?”

“No,” I answered then. “It simply reminds me that a way always exists.”

Now the compass lid was slightly scratched, but it still worked.

I put it in my bag and locked the door.

The next day I arrived in Madrid.

I entered the headquarters of the Del Valle Group for the first time not as an observer, but as an heir and future leader. At first people fell silent when I entered the room. They knew my surname, but were still learning my voice.

At the first board meeting one director asked me:

“Are you sure that you can manage such a large group?”

“No,” I answered. “But I am sure that I will not be afraid to ask questions.”

My mother squeezed my hand under the table.

“Your father would have liked that answer.”

“I like it myself too,” I told her.

Weeks passed.

The investigation against Adrian and Beatrice continued. Their wedding did not take place. The Del Valle Group recovered most of the lost money because the banks stopped the transfers. Tomas stayed with us and created a new financial-control system.

And I walked to the office in the mornings.

I always entered the small bakery next door at the same time.

“A cinnamon bun today?” the seller asked me.

“Today, yes.”

On my desk lay a small drawing sent by Nino. It showed a house with one door and countless windows.

Below it was written: “For Lucia, who opened the door herself.”

One evening I sat with my mother by the river. The air was cool, and the first leaves were falling from the trees.

“Do you still think about him?” my mother asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you miss him?”

I looked at the water for a long time.

“I miss the woman I thought I was with him. I do not miss Adrian himself anymore.”

My mother rested her head on my shoulder.

“This is already recovery.”

“No. This is freedom.”

Four months later I received a letter from Adrian. My new address was written on the envelope, but I recognized the handwriting immediately.

“Lucia, I have lost everything. Beatrice left me, my friends no longer answer me, and companies avoid working with me. You are the only person who can save me. I am not asking you to come back to me. Just meet me once.”

I read the letter to the end.

Then I wrote a reply.

“Adrian, I spent my whole life trying to save you. Now for the first time I choose to save myself. I cannot meet you. I wish that someday you yourself take responsibility for your choices.”

I sent the envelope and did not wait for an answer.

That same evening I stayed alone in the office. Madrid’s lights came on beyond the windows. On the desk lay the report, Nino’s drawing, and the small compass.

I opened the compass lid.

The needle pointed north.

For the first time I realized that all these years I had not lost my way—I had simply been following someone else’s direction.

I closed the compass.

And I no longer left the door open for anyone.