Alma Ríos could no longer remember when the tight knot had first settled in her stomach. Maybe it was the day her name appeared in a cold faculty-wide email—“Plagiarism investigation opened.” Or maybe it was weeks later, when her key no longer worked and her landlord spoke through the door as if she were dangerous. All she knew was that at thirty-two, once a respected Literature professor, she was now digging through a trash can in Guadalajara’s central square, searching for food that hadn’t yet begun to smell like surrender.
The sun was sinking low, and the cathedral’s shadow stretched long fingers across the pavement. Alma carefully separated a piece of bread wrapped in a napkin. Hunger didn’t frighten her anymore. What terrified her was being seen—recognized.
“You’re not ugly,” a man’s voice said suddenly, far too close. “You just need to dress better… and marry me.”
Alma froze, clutching the plastic bag against her chest like armor. She looked up. The man was tall, sharply dressed in a tailored suit, polished shoes gleaming, carrying himself with a confidence that felt obscene in a world that pretended she didn’t exist.
“Excuse me?” she whispered.
Without waiting for an answer, the stranger dropped to one knee right there, amid tourists and street vendors. He produced a small red box and opened it. A ring caught the dying sunlight, flashing like a cruel joke.
“I know it sounds absurd,” he said quietly. “But I need your help.”
Alma stepped back.
—Stand up. You’re… making a fool of yourself.
—I’m not crazy. I’m desperate.
Several people stopped. A child tugged at his mother’s sleeve and pointed. Alma felt their stares burn hotter than hunger.
—Who are you? she asked, her voice betraying a tremor.
“Gael Navarro,” he replied, closing the box with care. “And I have twenty-three days to get married—or I lose my family’s company.”
Alma let out a short, brittle laugh.
—And you think the solution is… buying a wife off the street?
Gael didn’t bristle. His gaze hardened instead, as if he accepted the accusation because he deserved it.
“It’s not charity,” he said. “It’s a deal. You help me. I help you.”
Alma folded her arms tightly. Her clothes were only half-clean, her hair bound with a stretched elastic—a silent confession. Yet somewhere inside her still lived the woman who corrected essays in red ink and debated metaphors like they mattered.
—Explain.
Gael rose slowly, careful not to crowd her.
“My grandfather left a clause. If I’m not married before I turn thirty-five, everything goes to my cousin Renata. And Renata…” His jaw tightened. “She wants to sell the company piece by piece.”
—And why me?
He slipped the ring away, as if refusing to use it as leverage.
—Because I’ve seen you here for weeks. You don’t beg. You don’t insult anyone. Even when people treat you badly, you say thank you. You still have dignity.
The word struck her like a blow—because it was true. Alma tried to look away, but emotion rose too fast.
—You don’t know anything about me.
“I know you didn’t choose this,” Gael said, with a certainty that unsettled her. “And I know someone destroyed your life.”
Anger and shame tangled in her throat.
—Marriage isn’t a game.
“It would be on paper only. Six months. No intimacy if you don’t want it. Five hundred thousand pesos—half now, half at the end. And…” He paused. “You help me convince my grandfather it’s real.”
Five hundred thousand. The number echoed in her head. A lawyer. Food. A room. A chance to fight back—to stop being a rumor whispered behind closed doors.
“I have conditions,” she said, surprised by her own voice.
Gael nodded.
—Name them.
—Separate rooms. Nothing physical. And when this is over… you help me clear my name.
He studied her, as if something had just been confirmed.
—What did they do to you?
Alma hesitated. Putting it into words felt like tearing the wound open again.
—They accused me of plagiarism. It was false. They ruined my life.
For a brief moment, something surfaced in Gael’s eyes beyond urgency—quiet, restrained fury.
“I accept,” he said. “Thursday, seven p.m. If you show up, we start. If you don’t, I won’t come looking for you.”
He handed her a card—heavy stock, gold letters, an address in Puerta de Hierro. As he turned to leave, he added without looking back:
—There’s a hostel two blocks away. They serve dinner before eight. Go.
That night Alma slept on the bench, but she wasn’t the same woman anymore. The fear was still there, yes—persistent, gnawing. But threaded through it was a spark: the dangerous thought that her fate could shift in just two days.
On Thursday, at six fifty-eight, Alma pressed the intercom with a shaking finger.
“Good evening,” a woman answered. “Who’s calling?”
—Alma Ríos. Gael… is expecting me.
The gate slid open. An immaculate garden unfolded before her, like a world she didn’t belong to. The housekeeper, Doña Beatriz, led her inside without a smile.
—Mr. Gael is in the living room.
Gael rose when he saw her. He didn’t ask about where she’d been or what she’d endured. He simply said:
—Thank you for coming.
That night they signed a straightforward contract. The next day, he transferred the first payment and took her out to buy clothes. Alma tried to refuse every dress, every pair of shoes, guilt tightening her chest. Gael waited her out, calmly.
“I’m not changing you,” he said. “I’m just giving you your tools back.”
Later, in the living room, when the mirror reflected a version of herself she almost recognized, Alma cried quietly. Not from vanity—but from mourning.
Gael’s first dinner with his grandfather felt like an examination disguised as politeness. Don Ernesto Navarro was the kind of man who never needed to raise his voice.
“Gael speaks of you often, Alma,” he said, pouring wine. “What did you do before?”
The knot returned. Gael was about to answer for her, but Alma lightly touched his arm.
“I was a literature professor,” she said, meeting the old man’s gaze. “And I was falsely accused of plagiarism. A lie cost me everything.”
The table went still. Don Ernesto set down his glass.
“Injustice is the most common poison,” he murmured. “And the most useful one for cowards.”
Gael looked at her with something close to pride. For the first time in months, Alma felt that telling the truth didn’t make her smaller.
The blow came the very next day.
Doña Beatriz appeared in the library, where Alma was trying to read—as if books could restore order.
—Mrs. Alma… there’s a man asking for you. He says he knows you from the university. His name is… Octavio Ledesma.
The name turned her blood cold. Octavio—the colleague who had harassed her, who had offered to “mentor” her career in exchange for favors, who had planted evidence on her computer and then played the victim when she refused him.
Alma went downstairs. Octavio stood by the window, wearing that familiar smile—the one that never reached his eyes.
“Alma, what a coincidence,” he said. “You look… better.”
—What do you want?
Octavio sat without being invited.
—Peace. I can publicly “clarify” the plagiarism misunderstanding. All I need is… compensation. Fifty thousand.
Rage flared inside her.
—You destroyed me… and now you want me to pay you to admit it?
Octavio shrugged.
“That’s how the real world works. And besides… it would be unfortunate if your husband learned who he married. The Navarros’ reputation is fragile.”
After he left, Alma remained shaking—not because of him, but from the terror of losing everything again just as she’d begun to breathe.
She called Gael. This time, he arrived within fifteen minutes.
“Tell me,” he said. There was no haste in his voice—only resolve.
Alma told him everything. When she finished, Gael inhaled slowly, like someone recognizing a battle ahead.
“We need proof,” he said. “And we’re not buying it. We’re pulling it out with the truth.”
He hired a private investigator—Héctor Zamora, unremarkable in appearance, sharp-eyed in manner. Héctor listened, took notes, asked for committee names, dates, emails—every detail.
“Blackmailers follow patterns,” he said. “If he did it to you, he did it to others.”
A week later, Héctor returned with a folder.
“Two more cases,” he said. “Same method. Same professor influencing committees. And there’s more—his lifestyle doesn’t match his salary. Suspicious deposits. People who know him are scared.”
The final piece came from the last person Alma expected.
One afternoon, as she and Gael were leaving a café, a woman approached them, visibly nervous.
—Professor… Alma?
Alma turned. Mariela Ortega. Her favorite former student—the same one who had looked away when the accusations surfaced.
—Mariela… —Alma whispered, her throat tightening.
Mariela swallowed.
“I saw your name somewhere—that you married Gael Navarro. I… I didn’t know how to find you before. And… I have something.” She handed over a USB drive. “Back then, I was working as an assistant in IT. I saw someone access your computer. I was scared, so I stayed quiet. But I saved the logs.”
The world tilted beneath Alma’s feet. It wasn’t just memory anymore—it was proof.
Gael drew in a slow breath.
“Thank you,” he said—and he didn’t sound like a businessman, but like someone who knew the price of choosing what’s right, even when it comes late.
The plan was quick and risky. They called Octavio to a hotel, “to negotiate.” This time, Héctor ensured everything was legally recorded. Gael was present—not as a fake husband, but as a man done playing along.
Octavio showed up self-assured, like someone convinced the world owed him.
“Did you bring the money?” he asked, smiling.
Alma met his gaze without lowering hers.
—We brought something better.
Héctor slid the folder across the table: photos, bank deposits, statements, and finally the computer access logs—dates and times unmistakable.
Octavio’s smile vanished.
—That proves nothing.
“It’s enough to trigger both a criminal and an administrative investigation,” Héctor said evenly. “And to make your name national news.”
Octavio swallowed.
—What do you want?
Alma leaned forward just slightly.
—A signed confession. Public. And that you step away. That you stop destroying lives.
Octavio turned to Gael, searching for leverage.
“Your marriage…” he began.
Gael smiled—cold, precise.
—My marriage is my concern. What concerns everyone else is that you’re a fraud.
Silence settled heavily between them. At last, Octavio dropped his eyes.
—Give me twenty-four hours.
The next day, he signed. Not out of decency—but out of fear.
The university released a statement. The case was reopened. Alma was officially cleared. The apologies couldn’t erase the hunger or the nights on the bench, but they restored something she thought was gone forever: her name.
That night, in the house’s library, Alma held the document with shaking hands.
—Yes —she said, hardly believing it—. It’s over.
Gael stepped closer.
“It’s not over,” he corrected gently. “It’s the beginning.”
She looked at him, and for the first time she didn’t see the man in the tailored suit, nor the rushed heir, nor the desperate stranger. She saw someone who had stayed—when he could have honored the contract and walked away untouched.
“Our agreement…” she murmured.
Gael pulled out the original contract—the one filled with timelines, cold clauses, separate rooms.
“There’s a flaw,” he said, tapping a line. “It never says what happens if two people actually become one.”
Alma laughed, tears spilling free.
—That’s quite an oversight.
Gael met her eyes like someone asking permission for the first time.
—May I kiss you… without pretending?
She didn’t answer aloud. She stepped closer. The kiss was simple—but carried everything they’d survived: fear, humiliation, resolve, hope. They kissed as if claiming something no contract could ever define.
Months later, Alma returned to teaching—this time at a university that welcomed her with dignity and trust. Don Ernesto, who had once only wanted “stability” for his grandson, ended up funding a scholarship program for students who, like Alma, had stood on the edge of giving up.
Renata, the cousin, lost her sharp smile when she realized she couldn’t dismantle the company under the weight of suspicion. And Mariela—the former student—became Alma’s first research assistant, determined never again to stay silent out of fear.
One afternoon, in the same square where Alma had once searched for food, she walked hand in hand with Gael. Not to reopen the pain, but to leave it where it belonged—in the past.
“Do you believe in destiny?” Alma asked.
Gael looked around—the vendors, the families, the life unfolding.
“I believe in choices,” he said. “Destiny may hand you a card… but you decide whether to walk through the gate.”
Alma tightened her grip on his hand.
“I walked through,” she whispered.
—So did I —he replied.
And for the first time in a very long while, the square no longer felt like the place of her fall—but the exact point where her life truly began again.
