The rest of the evening was a blur. Valentina carried out her duties mechanically, aware of the curious and murmuring glances of the guests. Santiago had returned to his table, but his carelessness and arrogance had vanished. He no longer laughed with his friends; his eyes constantly sought her out.
Later, as she was collecting the glasses near her table, she heard him speak, in a low, intense voice.
“I was serious about the proposal,” he told her, without preamble.
—What proposal? A marriage proposal?
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. It was a joke.
“It was for them,” he replied, taking a step toward her. “Not for me. Not after seeing you dance.”
An unfamiliar shiver ran down her spine. The intensity of his eyes was both terrifying and seductive.
“You don’t know me,” he said simply.
—Then let me get to know you. The simplicity of her answer was disconcerting, devoid of any previous arrogance.
“I have to get back to work,” he murmured, his heart pounding.
—Can I see you tomorrow? Please.
The word was so gentle, so sincere, that it took her by surprise. She should have said no. She should have run from the complication and the world he represented. But there was an authenticity in his eyes that she couldn’t ignore.
“Perhaps,” she admitted, and saw a genuine, mocking smile light up her face.
The next day, they met at the historic Café Tortoni . Santiago arrived dressed casually, looking younger and less intimidating than the night before. He looked at her with a new and unexpected sincerity.
“You look different,” he observed. “More like yourself. Last night, in that uniform, you seemed to be playing a role.”
“We all play roles sometimes,” she replied.
—That’s true. I’ve been playing the arrogant tycoon for so long that I sometimes forget who I really am.
He showed her his hands. They were really calloused.
“I like building things with my own hands. My father was horrified by it. He said a Herrera shouldn’t get his hands dirty with manual labor. Even so, I did it, mainly for that reason.”
Valentina found herself telling him about her mother, a seamstress who had worked tirelessly to pay for her dance classes. She spoke of the Teatro Colón and the terrible accident that had occurred two years earlier, which had left her with a devastating emotional block: a paralyzing stage fright she couldn’t overcome.
Santiago listened, his gaze fixed, without judgment. He asked nothing about money, but about fear .
—Last night you didn’t just dance with me, Valentina. You fought. You fought against silence, shame, and fear. And you won.
“It was a one-off thing,” he confessed. “I can’t go back to the stage.”
—You don’t need a stage to be a dancer.
He leaned forward.
