The applause grows, but it isn’t celebration.
It’s recognition.
It’s the sound of a room realizing it just witnessed a public undoing.
Davi steps forward abruptly, snatching the microphone from the stand as if he can reclaim control by holding metal.
“Enough,” he barks, voice sharp.
“This is inappropriate. She’s confused. She’s sick.”
Lídia looks at him calmly from her wheelchair.
Then she lifts her chin slightly.
“Sick doesn’t mean stupid,” she says, and the crowd flinches like they were slapped awake.
Bianca moves too fast, grabbing Davi’s wrist.
She whispers through clenched teeth, “What did you bring into my marriage?”
Davi’s face shines with sweat, the kind that comes from fear, not heat.
“Me?” he whispers back. “She’s doing this to me.”
But Bianca isn’t looking at him like a victim.
She’s looking at him like a bad investment.
You watch the power shift in real time.
The guests are staring.
Phones are recording now, but not for laughs, for evidence.
People who only came to drink champagne suddenly remember they have morals when it benefits them.
A man in a linen suit steps forward, introducing himself as a reporter, voice polite and lethal.
“Mrs. Salles,” he says to Bianca, “could you comment on the foundation’s spending?”
Bianca’s face tightens, and she lifts her chin, trying to rebuild her mask.
But the mask doesn’t fit anymore.
Davi turns toward Lídia, anger shaking his voice.
“You wanted money, didn’t you? This is extortion.”
Lídia nods once, almost sadly.
“I wanted time,” she corrects. “And I wanted my truth to live longer than my body.”
Then she reaches into her bag, slow and deliberate, and pulls out a folder.
Paperwork, not messy, not dramatic, organized like a woman who spent nights preparing for war.
She holds it up for the room to see.
“Your coordinator made me sign a contract,” she says.
“It includes a clause that your people thought I wouldn’t read.”
She looks straight at Davi.
“It says I waive my right to speak publicly about the divorce, the abandonment, and any financial harm caused.”
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