The employee was collecting artwork from the restaurant. The millionaire followed her and discovered something shocking. Héctor Villalobos stopped the crystal glass millimeters from his lips. His breath caught in his throat. The murmur of the most exclusive restaurant in San Pedro Garza García vanished from his mind, swallowed by a deafening buzz that chilled him to the bone. In front of him, just three tables away, was a ghost.
His German partners were talking about a $50 million pharmaceutical merger. The lawyer gestured, showing profit charts. Hector wasn’t listening to a single word. His dark, usually cold eyes were fixed on the gas station in the corner, where the waiters were throwing away dirty dishes. There she was, Nayeli. Hector blinked hard, thinking the stress was playing tricks on him, but no. It was the same woman he had left five years ago. The same brilliant woman, the ER nurse with a bright future, the only person who had loved him before his bank account had nine zeros.
But the woman he was seeing now bore no resemblance to the memory that haunted his sleepless nights. She wore a navy blue medical uniform, completely worn and faded from washing. Over the uniform, a black restaurant apron, stained with grease and sauces, held her hair pulled back in a hastily tied ponytail. Her hands, once soft and precise when tending wounds, were now encased in thick, yellow rubber gloves. Cracked from use, Hector felt a physical punch in his gut.
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