The mirror in Isadora's bedroom was pitted with brown spots, a vestige of humidity that the apartment walls could no longer contain.
Yet, what it reflected that morning was of a perfection insulting to the decay of the premises. Isadora brought her face close to the imperfect surface. Her eyes, of a deep and clear emerald green, seemed to defy the grayness of the neighborhood. She ran a hand through her wavy black hair which fell in silky cascades over her shoulders, a striking contrast to the paleness of her complexion.
She adjusted the collar of her light cotton dress. This was no cheap piece of ready-to-wear; it was a unique creation, fitted to the millimeter to emphasize her slender waist. It was the work of Marisa. Isadora smoothed the fabric with an affection she reserved for almost no one else. Her godmother, that lonely widow from the landing across the hall, had taught her everything: the art of holding a needle, the patience of the cross-stitch, and above all, the dignity that one could sew into a garment to mask misery.
— Isadora! Breakfast is going to get cold! Josefina shouted from the kitchen.
Isadora closed her eyes for a moment, letting out a silent sigh. The smell of fried beans and third-rate coffee seeped under the door. To her mother, this smell was that of security, of gratitude for having something to eat. To Isadora, it was the scent of the poverty that imprisoned her.
She left her room and crossed the common area. Pablo, her father, was already seated at the table, his overalls marked by oil stains from his garage. Upon seeing his daughter, his tired eyes lit up with immediate pride.
— You are dazzling, my girl, he said with a sincere smile. You look like a movie actress lost in a garage.
— Thank you, Papa, she replied, planting a kiss on his forehead.
— Always parading around, Josefina murmured, placing a plate in front of Mia, the younger sister. What's the point of dressing like a duchess just to go sit on university benches? You should take after your sister. Mia helps around the house without complaining and doesn't spend hours in front of the mirror.
Mia lowered her eyes, displaying that docility that Josefina cherished so much. For Josefina, Isadora's ambition was a threat, a form of ingratitude toward the destiny they shared. She preferred the quiet resignation of Mia, who never questioned the hierarchy of the world.
— Leave her be, Josefina, Pablo intervened in a firm but calm voice. Isadora is right to aim high. If she doesn't believe in herself, who will in this neighborhood?
Isadora cast a look of gratitude at her father. He was the only one who didn't see her dreams as a betrayal. She politely refused the plate her mother held out to her. Her stomach was knotted with impatience, not hunger.
— I have to go. My godmother is waiting for me to entrust me with a hem before I leave for college.
She left the apartment before her mother could retort. Crossing the hallway to go to Marisa's was to her like entering a sanctuary. At her godmother's, there were no reproaches, only the soothing rhythmic clicking of the sewing machine and the smell of cinnamon tea.
— My dear, you are ready, Marisa said, opening the door. Her eyes shone with the love of a mother she had never been able to be biologically.
— Thanks to you, godmother. This dress is magnificent.
— It only emphasizes what is already there, Isadora. Don't forget: people see the fabric, but they bow before the posture. Go, and don't let anyone make you believe you don't belong.
Leaving the building, Isadora felt the heat of the city rising from the asphalt. She walked with a brisk pace toward the bus stop, ignoring the whistles of the local youths. She knew what she was worth, and she did not intend to waste her capital here.
At the university, the atmosphere changed radically. The manicured lawns and old stone buildings were her true battlefield. At the entrance to the law department, she spotted Luisa Monterro stepping out of a black sedan driven by a chauffeur.
Luisa was the only friend Isadora tolerated, and for good reason: she was the daughter of Dr. Monterro, the owner of the country's largest hospital complex, and above all, she cared nothing for her social status and accepted her as she was.
Luisa was rich, a bit naive, but her friendship was the key to closed circles.
— Isadora! You look divine in that dress! Luisa exclaimed, joining her. It looks like custom-made from a great designer.
— It's a family secret, Isadora replied with a smile on her lips. Ready for the civil procedure class?
— Not at all, but luckily you're here to save the day.
As they climbed the steps, Julian Vaca, the assistant professor, passed them. Isadora immediately felt his gaze linger on her.
Julian was brilliant, respected, and he made no secret of his admiration for Isadora's intelligence—and beauty. But to her, he was just another cog in the academic machine.
— Hello, Isadora, Luisa, he said, his voice betraying a slight hesitation. I've finished grading your thesis. It is... exceptional.
Isadora stopped, but her expression remained professional, almost cold.
— I expected nothing less from my work, Mr. Vaca. Do you have any specific remarks or can I consider the maximum grade acquired?
Julian seemed momentarily taken aback by this icy distance. He was looking for a connection, a spark of complicity he thought he perceived during their intellectual exchanges, but he only hit a wall of emerald green glass.
— No... no remarks. It's perfect. I simply wanted to propose discussing a research assistant position for next semester.
— Email me the details, Monsieur. I will see if it fits into my schedule. Good day.
She resumed her walk without a backward glance, leaving Julian standing still in the hallway. Luisa gave her a little nudge with her elbow.
— You're hard on him, Isadora. He's quite good-looking for a professor, and he hangs on your every word.
— He is useful, Luisa. But utility has nothing to do with sentiment. One does not climb a mountain by attaching oneself to stones that do not move.
Isadora entered the lecture hall. She knew that tonight, at the faculty's annual reception where the city's greatest families would be present, her life was going to take a turn. She had heard a name circulating in the hallways:
Alejandro Jáuregui. A name that rhymed with power, heritage, and fortune.
She sat down, opened her notebook, and began taking notes.