Seven years after the divorce, he ran into his ex-wife working as a cleaner—silently eyeing a million-dollar dress
Elena Cruz bent down to pick up the scattered banknotes.
Not because he needed the money, but because he didn’t want it lying around on the gleaming marble floor. He carefully placed the bills on the edge of a trash can and spoke in a calm, even tone.
“You should keep it,” he said. “You’re going to need that money more than I do.”
For a brief second, Victor Salazar was paralyzed.
There was no bitterness in his voice.
Not even despair.
That contained calm threw him off much more than anger ever could have.
“Still clinging to that fake pride?” Victor mocked, turning to Natalie, his current partner. “See? Penniless… but stubborn.”
Natalie let out a sharp laugh and tightened her grip on Victor’s arm, scanning Elena with blatant contempt.
That’s when the atmosphere changed.
A group of men in tailored black suits entered the lobby. At the front walked a silver-haired gentleman with an authoritative presence, followed by executives… and a small press team.
The mall manager hurried over and bowed deeply.
“Miss Cruz,” he said respectfully, “everything is ready. The presentation will begin in three minutes.”
The entire lobby fell silent.
Victor’s face lost its color.
“Ms… Miss Cruz?” he stammered, the words stuck in his throat.
Elena nodded slightly.
She left the cleaning cloth on her cart.
He took off his gloves with deliberate calm.
An assistant appeared instantly, placing an impeccable white blazer over her shoulders.
In a matter of seconds, the cleaner disappeared.
Before Victor stood a serene woman: her hair loose, her posture upright, her gaze sharp and distant.
The silver-haired man stepped forward and announced clearly:
—It is an honor to introduce Elena Cruz, founder of the luxury brand Crimson Flame and the main investor behind tonight’s exclusive collection.
Victor stumbled backwards.
The ruby red dress displayed behind Elena—the same one he had ridiculed moments before—had his name embroidered on the inside of the label.
Elena turned towards him.
And she smiled.
But it was no longer the fragile smile he remembered from seven years ago.
“Seven years ago,” she said softly, “you told me I would never be on your level.”
—A few minutes ago, you said that I could never touch this dress.
He raised his hand.
The staff unlocked the glass display case.
Elena ran her fingers over the deep red fabric. Under the lights, the lobby seemed to glow.
—What a shame—he murmured.
—Because the one who no longer has the right to touch any of this… is you.
At that moment, Victor’s phone vibrated repeatedly.
A message from your assistant:
“Sir, our strategic partner has withdrawn all funding. They have signed an exclusive agreement with… Miss Elena Cruz.”
Before Victor could answer, Natalie yanked his arm away.
“You said you were about to become vice president,” he snapped. “Was that all a lie?”
She turned and walked away, her heels hitting the ground like blows against Victor’s shattered pride.
Elena walked past him without even looking at him.
He left only one sentence behind, floating gently in the air:
—Thank you… for letting me go that time.
Victor stood motionless in the center of the lobby, surrounded by luxury, flashing cameras and muffled whispers, trapped inside a reality he had never imagined he would have to face.
