A few weeks later, the Montes family decided to change Isabella’s school. They forbade her from going near the old fence. They forbade her from mentioning Mateo. They forbade her from carrying extra food in her backpack.
For the adults, that was just a small matter.
But for Mateo, it was the first time in his life that he lost the only person who made him feel that he still deserved to live.
And then, one day, Matthew stopped appearing.
Before disappearing, he waited for Isabella outside the side entrance of her new school for three hours. When the girl came out, he ran toward her, breathing heavily, with a blue ribbon still tied around his wrist—the same one Isabella had once used to hold her lunchbox.
“I have to go,” said Mateo.
-Where to?
—A family from Monterrey is going to adopt me. They say I’ll be able to go to school.
Isabella was paralyzed.
Mateo tried to smile, but his eyes were red.
—When I grow up, I’ll come back for you.
Isabella burst into tears.
—Do you promise me?
Mateo.
—I promise you. When I can stand before you and I’m no longer the hungry child behind the bars… I will return.
Isabella took off a small silver bracelet and put it in her hand.
—Then keep this. So you don’t forget me.
Mateo pressed the bracelet hard.
The two children hugged one last time on a small street in Guadalajara.
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. And then Matthew left.
Twenty-five years passed
Twenty-five years passed.
Guadalajara changed its avenues, its buildings, and its pace. Where there were once empty lots, glass towers appeared. Where old mansions stood, designer restaurants sprang up. Family names still carried weight, but less so. Money still ruled, though now it did so through social media and image campaigns.
Isabella Montes also changed.
She was no longer the little girl with perfect braids who hid half a cake in her lunchbox. She was thirty-four years old, had a degree in business administration, and the Montes name still opened doors she sometimes wished she could close. After her mother’s death, she had tried to take a different path than her father. She wanted to turn part of the hotel group into a real foundation, not an elegant front for tax breaks.
But with his father, nothing was easy.
Don Ricardo Montes remained a tough man, obsessed with prestige and the idea that compassion should look good in photographs, not complicate balance sheets. Every proposal from Isabella ended the same way.
—Businesses are not shelters.
—I’m not talking about giving things away, I’m talking about investing in people.
—Grateful people don’t exist.
After years of arguments, Isabella grew tired of it. She stayed within the company, yes, but in a small corner. She managed internal programs, limited scholarships, and employee support. Enough to sleep a little better. Not enough to feel free.
She never married.
There were boyfriends, almost-signed engagements, impeccable dinners with decent men. But she always ended up feeling like she was talking to whole people while a part of her remained stuck on a small street in Guadalajara, watching a boy with a blue ribbon on his wrist promise something impossible.
Over the years he stopped telling the story.
People would smile fondly or mockingly when he mentioned it. “What a lovely memory.” “Children promise anything.” “He probably doesn’t even remember you.”
She was smiling too.
But she remained silent when, on some nights, she opened an antique box where she kept half of a silver bracelet. Mateo had taken the other half.
Grupo Montes’ 25th anniversary arrived amidst problems. The chain was burdened with hidden debts, aging hotels, and a failed project in Puerto Vallarta that had drained millions. Don Ricardo organized a huge gala to project strength.
He invited press, politicians, businesspeople and potential investors.
He needed to forge an alliance that would save the group.
Isabella knew this because she had overheard the lawyers speaking in hushed tones: if fresh capital didn’t appear that night, they would have to sell historical assets in less than six months.
The gala was held at the Hotel Imperial, the family’s historic jewel. Restored chandeliers, flowers, violinists by the main white staircase. Everything looked perfect.
Inside, fear.
Isabella wore a dark blue dress and her patience was wearing thin. She waved with a smile as she watched her father feign confidence, a glass in his hand.
“Someone important is arriving today,” he said without looking at her. “Behave professionally.”
—I always do.
—Don’t contradict me in front of him.
—I don’t even know who he is.
Don Ricardo adjusted the sack.
—The founder of the Cruz Altamira Group.
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