Episode 3

The bitterness of the liquor went down her throat like liquid fire, searing her insides, but Zaira didn't stop. One glass. Two. Three.

Each drink was a makeshift shield against the voices that echoed relentlessly in her head: The bills piled on the kitchen table, marked with red "Overdue" stamps.

The university books she could no longer buy. Her mother's dry cough, heard every night through the paper-thin walls.

She swallowed and laughed, as if alcohol could erase reality. As if it could, for a few hours, anesthetize the pain.

Sitting on one of the side sofas in the club, under a dim light that tinted her skin in amber tones, Zaira laughed at something she didn't even understand. Her cheeks were flushed with alcohol, her pupils shone like lost stars, and her body swayed to the slow rhythm of the deep music that vibrated in the walls.

Next to her, Tatiana smiled forcedly, feigning fun while her eyes betrayed the guilt that gnawed at her insides.

From time to time, she cast nervous glances towards the private balcony, where Sergio, the club owner, discreetly nodded at her.

The pressure on her shoulders was suffocating.

Tatiana swallowed, adjusting her short dress while feeling the weight of the envelope full of promises still invisible in her hands.

"You know, Tati?" Zaira stammered, dropping her head on her friend's shoulder, her breath infused with cheap rum. "Sometimes... sometimes I dream that... a rich guy, you know?, falls in love with me... and gets me out of this hell," she laughed with a broken, bitter laugh that sounded like a lament lost in the music.

"What a stupid thing, right?!" she mocked herself, her words slurred and vulnerable. "A poor girl saved by a millionaire prince! What a joke!"

Tatiana closed her eyes for a second, letting the guilt scratch her soul.

She was selling her.

And yet, she stroked her tangled hair with a hypocritical tenderness, as if that gesture could redeem her.

"It's not stupid, Zai..." she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Sometimes life... gives us opportunities where we least expect them."

Zaira looked up, her eyes shining with a mixture of alcohol and sadness.

Before she could answer, two security men, huge and dressed in impeccable black suits, materialized in front of them like heavy shadows.

The music blurred, the air became dense.

"Ladies," one said, his voice deep, but polite, "the owner of the club wishes to invite you to a more private area, for your comfort."

Zaira blinked, confused. The world around her spun like a faulty carousel.

"Us?" she stammered, with an incredulous giggle.

"Yes," the guard nodded, holding out a firm, implacable hand.

She looked at Tatiana, looking for an answer, a lifeline.

Tatiana returned a broken smile, one that Zaira couldn't read.

"Go, honey," she murmured. "You're too drunk to stay here. I'll be right there."

The warmth of her voice was a lie wrapped in velvet.

Zaira, staggering, accepted the guard's hand.

Her worn-soled boots resonated dully on the polished floor as they led her down a corridor lined with dark velvet, barely illuminated by golden lamps.

The air smelled of expensive perfume and rotten secrets.

They arrived at a private elevator. The cabin went up silently, like a sentence.

When the doors opened, what appeared before her was another world: a luxury suite, of impossible dimensions.

Perfectly aligned black leather sofas, fluffy Persian carpets, marble walls that reflected the soft light of crystal chandeliers.

An intoxicating aroma of fine wood and aged whiskey permeated the atmosphere.

"Wait here, please," the guard said before leaving.

Zaira collapsed on one of the sofas, her head hanging back, her eyes closed.

The silence was absolute, except for the dull hum of her own heart.

Everything was spinning.

The guilt, the silly illusion, the fear.

And she didn't know that, behind that heavy door, the man who would change everything was already walking towards her.

In another corner of the club, in the private office, Tatiana received her payment.

A thick envelope, smelling of new bills and betrayal.

"Don't worry," said the club owner, adjusting the cufflinks of his tailored shirt. "In a few hours, your friend will have the life she always dreamed of... or the one she deserves."

Tatiana pressed the envelope against her chest, her hands cold as marble.

She met Sergio's gaze for an instant.

And she knew that she had sold something she could never recover.

Leonardo Santos drained the last sip of his whiskey in an adjoining private room.

The drink slid down his throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste that failed to erase the emptiness in his chest.

The warm light caressed his weathered face, furrowed with lines that spoke of his 50 years lived with intensity and loneliness.

The reflection in the mirror gave him back the image of a powerful... and deeply lonely man.

He had no wife.

He had no children.

He didn't even have a house he could call home.

Only money. And ghosts.

A bitter snort escaped his lips as he left the crystal glass on the table. His dark gaze shone for an instant, charged with an indomitable sadness.