From abandoned girlfriend to tycoon’s lover (Copy)

⚰️ Chapter 11 — The Funeral, the Press, and the Pitch

The invitation came the next morning.

Not a call. Not a message.

A formal, black-edged envelope delivered to my office.

Inside, gold-embossed letters read:

In loving memory of Isabel Gómez Navarro Martínez.
Memorial service to be held this Saturday.
Family and close guests only.

There was no mention of me by name.

But I was expected.

Of course I was.

They wanted me there to show the world we were still “family.” To prove the Navarro women were united in grief. To give the press their perfect, photogenic mourning moment.

I tossed the envelope aside.

Rosa picked it up later and asked, “Will you go?”

“I haven’t decided.”

She gave me a look. “They’re already whispering. If you don’t show up… it’ll confirm everything they say.”

“Let them whisper.”

“You’re winning now, María. Don’t hand them a new headline.”

She was right, of course.

That afternoon, as I sat in my office reviewing design sketches, my phone buzzed.

Leonardo.

You received the invite, I assume.

I replied simply:

Of course.

Will you attend?

Do you want me to?

Yes. And wear black. Look devastating.

I smirked.

He really knew how to keep things interesting.

Saturday came quickly.

The church was packed.

Rows of pristine white flowers lined the aisles. Tall glass vases glinted under the soft cathedral lighting. Isabel’s portrait stood at the front — perfect, radiant, and heavily edited. Her eyes sparkled in the photo. A photo taken in the dress I had sewn.

Antonio stood beside the casket, dressed in black, looking every bit the grieving widower.

Carmen cried loudly in the front row, flanked by my father and several extended family members. Her sobs were dramatic, theatrical — as if she were auditioning for a tragic opera.

I walked in through the main doors, dressed in a sleek black gown that hugged my body like armor. Black heels. Black gloves. Hair pulled back into a flawless twist. Red lipstick — because grief doesn’t mean surrender.

All eyes turned to me.

A ripple passed through the room.

The real María Navarro had arrived.

The priest paused when he saw me.

I walked to the front row and took my seat.

Antonio looked at me, lips parting slightly — maybe in surprise, maybe regret.

I didn’t look back.

The ceremony began.

Words were spoken. Prayers recited. People took turns speaking about Isabel — how kind, beautiful, generous she was. How she died too young. How her final wish was to marry the man she loved.

I nearly choked.

When my father stood up, he mentioned Isabel’s grace, her loyalty to family, her purity.

I had to dig my nails into my glove to keep from laughing.

Finally, the priest invited “anyone close to the deceased” to say a few words.

The room went silent.

Then, surprisingly, Carmen turned to me.

“You should speak,” she whispered.

I tilted my head slightly.

“And say what?”

“She was your sister.”

I met her eyes.

“No,” I said. “She was your daughter.”

Then I stood and walked toward the altar anyway.

Cameras clicked. Reporters in the back adjusted their lenses.

I reached the microphone and looked out over the crowd.

“She was young,” I began, voice steady. “She was ambitious. She wanted the world — and she took it.”

Murmurs.

“She didn’t always play fair. But she played hard. And she got what she wanted, in the end.”

I paused.

“She died married to the man she loved. Wearing the dress she loved. With the legacy she wanted.”

Another pause.

“So if you ask me whether I’m sad she’s gone… I’ll say this — I’m sad that it took death for her to finally stop competing with me.”

A few gasps. A few camera flashes. One stifled laugh.

And then silence.

I stepped away from the mic and returned to my seat.

Antonio didn’t look at me again.

Outside the church, the press swarmed.

“María! Are you inheriting anything?”

“Were you and Isabel close before she passed?”

“Did you really slap her at the office?”

“Is it true Antonio tried to get back with you afterward?”

I raised one hand.

“Today is about Isabel,” I said calmly. “Let the dead rest. And let the living move forward.”

Then I got into the waiting black car where Leonardo was already seated.

He poured a glass of champagne.

“To your performance,” he said, handing it to me.

“It wasn’t a performance.”

He smiled. “Even better.”

We drove in silence for a while. Then he turned to me with something new in his eyes — intent.

“I have something for you,” he said.

From a leather folder, he pulled out a file and handed it to me.

Inside: plans. A brand expansion. Europe. Asia. The U.S.

“We partner now,” he said. “You’ll have access to every showroom, every major buyer. We launch your line globally.”

“And in return?”

He leaned in just enough to make it personal.

“In return, I get to see what happens when a woman like you is truly unleashed.”

I closed the folder slowly.

And smiled.