Chapter 10: The First Heir

The video of Rodrigo at the hospital desk had two million views by Friday.

Someone had put music under it.

Someone else had cut it together with the clip from the business club.

A news anchor in Mexico City had called it the apology of the year.

Valeria did not watch it again.

She sat on Fabiola's couch with her feet up and a plate of toast on her knees.

Her sister read the comments aloud.

"This one says you're a queen. This one says Rodrigo should be in jail."

"This one wants to know where you got the navy dress."

"Funerals."

"I'll tell her."

The buzzer rang at seven.

Fabiola looked at the door, and then at Valeria.

"If it's him, I'm saying it's the wrong flat."

"He agreed to the rules."

"He agreed to the rules, but he's a man."

She went to the peephole and stopped.

"Huh," she said.

She opened the door only as far as the chain.

Brenda Quiroz stood in the hall with a small overnight bag.

Her gray blazer was wrinkled, and she held a paper cup of coffee she hadn't touched.

"I'm sorry for coming without calling," she said to the crack in the door.

"I don't have anyone else to ask."

Fabiola looked back over her shoulder.

"Your call, Vale."

Valeria stared at the coffee for a long moment.

"Let her in," she said. "She doesn't get the couch."

Brenda sat on a kitchen chair with the bag at her feet.

She looked at the ugly orange tablecloth and said nothing for almost a minute.

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