More applause. Marilyn blushed and smiled shyly.
Then Weinstock did something that changed everything.
He looked toward María’s table. Their eyes met.
“And we also have international visitors tonight,” he said, smiling in a way that did not reach his eyes. “Actors from other countries who come to see how real work is done.”
Pause.
“Like Miss Félix from Mexico.”
María did not move, but something in her posture shifted.
“It must be difficult,” he continued with false compassion, “to see what can be achieved with the right resources, the right studios, the right talent.”
Uncomfortable laughter echoed from some tables.
“I’m sure Miss Félix would give anything for a chance here—to work with us, to be part of this. Perhaps one day, if she learns English well enough, loses that accent, understands how things work here.”
He smiled.
“After all, not everyone can be Marilyn Monroe.”
And that was when María stood up.
Slowly. The sound of her chair scraping across the floor was like thunder in the silence. She picked up her champagne glass, held it for a moment, watching the bubbles rise. Then, with a casual, almost bored movement, she let it fall.
The crystal exploded against the marble.
Fragments glittered in the air. Absolute silence.
Weinstock stared at her, stunned. No one dared breathe.
María walked. Her heels echoed through the hall. Step by step, she approached the main table. She stopped in front of Weinstock and looked him directly in the eyes.
“Mr. Weinstock,” she said calmly, “I believe there is a misunderstanding.”
He tried to speak. María raised a hand.
“Shh. The adults are speaking.”
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