María stepped back, startled. “No, Alejandro—” she began, raising her hands in peace.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he roared, louder now, “and don’t demand I smile when I don’t want to!”
No one moved.
Hundreds of people, frozen.
Then history split in two.
Alejandro raised his right hand and slapped her.
Open palm. Full force.
The sound cracked through the atrium like a whip.
María’s veil tore loose and drifted down to the dirty ground. Her heels caught, and she dropped to her knees on hard stone, clutching her face. The mark of his fingers bloomed instantly on her cheek, visible to everyone.
She didn’t scream.
She just stared at the ground like her mind couldn’t catch up to what her body already knew: the man she married had hurt her in front of God and the entire town.
Alejandro stood over her, breathing hard.
No remorse. No shock. Just defiance, like he was waiting for someone to challenge his authority.
Horror filled the faces around them—fear, shame, disbelief.
Then María’s first sob broke out, strangled and broken.
That sound shattered the trance.
Her mother screamed. Women covered children’s eyes. Guests stumbled backward as if Alejandro radiated danger. María’s father surged forward, fury twisting his face, but his own brothers grabbed his arms, terrified the scene would turn into bloodshed.
“Let me go!” her father roared. “I’ll kill him!”
Alejandro smiled cynically, as if this were entertainment.
Doña Consuelo tried to calm her son, whispering his name, but Alejandro shook her off like she was nothing.
“Don’t touch me either, Mom,” he spat. “All women are manipulative.”
His mother went pale, lips trembling, as if he had slapped her too.
