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Lazaro looked at her, and she clung to the resolve she could see in his eyes.
He clinked his glass to hers. ‘Yes, let’s do it.’
He put his arm around her waist again and Leonora forced a smile through the lingering claustrophobia. He started speaking, but she didn’t really take in his words, letting them roll over her.
Against every effort, her eye was drawn back across the crowd to where Gabriel Torres stood. He was still watching her, with a disconcertingly intense gaze. Leonora started to tremble lightly under the force of it.
Suddenly a voice rang out. ‘Wait! Stop!’
It shook Leonora out of her trance. It was a woman, who’d pushed through the crowd near the dais. She was being held back by security guards. She was dressed like the wait staff, in a white shirt and black skirt. Vibrant red hair, up in a bun. She was very pretty. Bright blue eyes.
She was looking at Lazaro, and then she said, ‘You need to know something. I’m pregnant. With your child.’
For long seconds time was suspended, and then everything seemed to go into slow motion as Leonora felt Lazaro’s arm leave her waist. She watched as the woman said something else, not hearing what it was through the buzzing in her head.
Lazaro stepped down off the dais to talk to the woman, holding her arm. She looked very petite next to him. Vaguely, ridiculously, Leonora appreciated that they looked good together.
She couldn’t hear what they were saying, and then the woman was being led away.
Lazaro turned back to look at her, his expression veering between shock, anger and contrition.
He came back up on to the dais and said something to the crowd—she wasn’t sure what. Too many feelings were rolling over her—chief of which, she was ashamed to admit, was a sense of relief. But that was quickly eclipsed when she looked around and saw the crowd whispering. Some people were looking at her with pity and others with something far less benign. A malicious glee at the fall of one of their own.
She’d tried to buy her way out of debt and shame and now she felt as exposed as if she were naked. And he was still there. At the back. Looking at her with a grim expression.
She turned away and saw Lazaro. She backed away and then she stopped. Maybe this was just some hideous case of mistaken identity.
‘Is it true?’
But Lazaro said nothing, and his silence said everything.
He looked guilty.
He held out a hand. ‘Leonora, please...let me explain.’
It was real.
She became aware of the burn of humiliation. She shook her head. ‘I can’t agree to marry you. Not now.’
She sent up a silent thank you that her parents weren’t there to witness this moment. Or Matías. He would see that she was upset and that would upset him.
She cast a look around, instinctively seeking an escape route. All she saw were judgemental eyes. Mocking eyes.
She looked at Lazaro for one last time, dismay and humiliation scoring her insides like a knife. ‘How could you do this to me? In front of all these people?’
Without waiting for a response, she put her glass down on the nearest surface and turned and fled, making for the nearest exit with no clue where to go.
The first thing she saw was a Ladies’ sign, and she followed it to the bathroom, which was mercifully empty. She locked herself into a stall and sat down on the closed toilet.
She was trembling, her heart pounding. She forced herself to take deep breaths, and just as she was starting to feel marginally calmer the door opened. It sounded as if at least three women were coming in, all chattering. About her and Lazaro.
‘Who’d marry her now? She’s so desperate she was willing to marry some nouveau riche billionaire...’
‘Where did Sanchez even come from?’
‘Some say he grew up on the streets.’
‘The de la Vegas can’t survive this. All they have is her and that brother of hers, who everyone knows is a—’
