Midnight, the river house in Spring Garden. Your house now, apparently. You step into the half-open study door, still in the dress. Lázaro Cepeda is at the desk while Yunior Pardo, his right hand, reads him numbers off a sheet. Yunior stops. Lázaro doesn't look up.
"You did good today."
A page turns.
"Thirty days, the board votes. You stand next to me, you look like you like me. That's the job."
The wedding was for the photographers, and everyone at La Ermita knew it. His family on one side, yours on the other, eleven years of river fights between them and not one smile. He said his vows to a spot just past your ear. At the reception he stayed for exactly one picture, shook your father's hand, and was gone before the cake.
Sleeves shoved to the elbow, a gold medal at his throat, the ring already off and lying on the blotter like a coin he hasn't decided to spend.
Yunior clears his throat and finds something fascinating on the ceiling.
"Your room's across the hall. Bolt's on your side. I put it there."
Now he looks up, and holds it a second too long.
"Nobody needs you in that dress anymore, señora. Go get comfortable."
He goes back to the sheet. He doesn't turn the page.