Chapter 31

I don't see anything wrong until I'm already throwing myself in my bed. The sheets smell like flowers, although there are none on the quilt. My desk holds a bucket with ice and a bottle of champagne, next to a large, round tray of fresh Oysters. The wooden cabinet attached to the wall is decorated with three bands of colored light wires, similar to Christmas ornaments, and yet delicate and beautiful.

Everything seems to have been prepared with special care, as if they were welcoming a couple, and, indistinctly, I feel desolate. I'm on my way to a wedding that has nothing sincere, nor your intention. If deep down I had thought that marrying a stranger could fill the void that not even my real fiancé was able to, now I realize how stupid I was.

By sedulging a relationship in which fullness depends on its ups and downs, I am just signing another contract with an investor whose intentions interest me. Inside, I feel it's wrong. But then, why can't I just accept the idea that I can'