De marmeren vloeren van het Belmont Reforma Hotel glansden onder de kristallen kroonluchters terwijl Tomás Briones zijn creditcard aan de receptioniste gaf.
Op zijn 38e trok hij nog steeds de aandacht: op maat gemaakt pak, zelfverzekerde glimlach, duur horloge. De vrouw aan zijn arm leek overal blij mee.
« Deze plek is ongelooflijk, » fluisterde Nadia, terwijl ze haar wijnrode jurk rechtzette die elk licht opving. « Ik kan niet geloven dat we hier blijven. »
« Ik heb je het beste beloofd, » antwoordde Tomás, terwijl hij haar hand kneep. « Niets minder dan het beste voor jou. »
De receptioniste, in haar flesgroene colbert en met een perfect geoefende glimlach, typte wat informatie in de computer.
“Welcome to the Belmont Reforma, Mr. Briones. It’s a pleasure to have you with us tonight.”
Tomás barely glanced back at her. He was too busy enjoying Nadia’s surprised expression and thinking about what would happen later.
His wife, Jimena, believed he was in Monterrey, at a business conference. As always, he had sent her photos of “meeting rooms” that were actually restaurants.
After twelve years of marriage, Jimena trusted him blindly. That trust had made his double life far too easy.
“Your room is ready,” the receptionist continued, swiping his key card across the counter. “I just have to tell you something: tonight the new owner is personally greeting the guests. It’s her first week running the hotel, and she likes to make a point of welcoming them.”
“New owner?” Tomás frowned, barely interested.
“Yes, sir. The hotel changed hands three days ago. It’s been very exciting for us. She should be here any minute.”
Tomás took the card impatiently. Nadia was already discreetly pulling him toward the elevators.
Then, a single word rooted him to the spot.
“Tomás.”
His name. Spoken in a voice he knew better than his own.
He turned slowly, his stomach sinking into the floor.
About ten paces away, standing in the lobby light, was his wife.
Jimena wore a navy blue pantsuit he’d never seen her in before, elegant heels, and her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. She wasn’t the woman in jeans and an apron who greeted him at home. Her face held the serene, firm expression of someone accustomed to being in charge.
“Ji… Jimena,” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”
She walked toward him calmly, unhurriedly, like someone arriving punctually for a pre-arranged meeting.
“I own this hotel,” she replied. “Since Monday morning. Didn’t I tell you I was making some investments?”
Nadia’s hand loosened on his arm. She looked at him, then at Jimena, her horror growing.
“Is she your wife?” “—she whispered.
“Yes,” Jimena answered, before Tomás could open his mouth. “I’m Mrs. Briones. And you must be Nadia Pérez, right? The marketing coordinator at Tomás’s company.”
Nadia turned white.
