Chapter 3 A broken smile

The soft afternoon light fell on the large glass facade of the most expensive café in the city center. Inside, men in suits chatted quietly, mixing words like stocks, mergers, and acquisitions. Among them, Enzo Albuquerque seemed oblivious to it all, although all eyes revolved around him like satellites around a cold sun.

Sitting in a leather armchair, he absentmindedly stirred his cup of coffee, oblivious to the dissipating steam. Opposite him, Lucas Viana, his partner and right-hand man in some less official transactions, chatted away.

"We already have the land on the block above. All that's missing is the old bakery space, and we've closed off the entire perimeter for the new tower. The Asian investors want everything signed by next month."

Enzo looked up from the numbers projected on the tablet Lucas was pushing across the table. Across the street, through the glass wall, he could see the bakery. Small, narrow, between shops with billboards ready for demolition. He saw her, or rather, scanned her.

Clara.

There she was, on the other side of the fogged-up window, wiping the counter with a worn cloth. The yellowish light inside seemed to envelop her in a cocoon that contrasted sharply with the cold concrete of the city. With each movement, a loose strand of hair escaped from her makeshift bun, falling onto her furrowed brow.

"Are you listening to me, Enzo?" Lucas cleared his throat impatiently. "I told you if you don't hand over the keys, the legal department will file foreclosure. Quickly and discreetly."

Enzo didn't respond. He continued watching. He saw Clara stop, sigh deeply, and look around as if examining every detail of this piece of the world that refused to perish. A woman came in and came out, smiling, carrying a box of cake. Clara smiled back, but Enzo recognized it: it was a broken smile. He ran his hand over his chin, feeling the scraggly beard that insisted on growing during long meetings. For a moment, an old memory flashed through his mind: Clara laughing while trying a new ingredient, Clara throwing flour at him on a Saturday night, Clara running away from his touch, when she still believed she could love without fear.

Enzo leaned his elbows on the table, ignoring the bustle of the elegant café.

"What if she doesn't give up?" he asked, without taking his eyes off his glass. "What if she decides to fight to the end?"

Lucas gave a short laugh, taking off his glasses to rub his temples.

"Enzo, please... she's alone. She has no capital, no partner, no credit. The bank has already denied everything. It's only a matter of time. And if she's too proud to leave on good terms, we'll send the bailiff, period."

Enzo snorted, shaking his head. "On good terms..." he repeated softly, as if savoring the bitter taste of the phrase. Lucas leaned forward, smelling something other than business. "Don't tell me you're going to have a crisis of conscience now? After all? That woman wanted to break up with you, remember? She left you standing in that dirty place like you were just anybody."

Enzo clenched his fist, a muscle popping in his jaw. "I don't need a lecture, Lucas."

"Then let the paperwork take care of itself. It's not your problem."

But it was. It always was. As much as he wanted to deny it, Clara was like a splinter stuck in his skin: invisible from a distance, unbearable when it hit deep.

He watched her leave the store with two cardboard boxes. She stopped on the sidewalk, adjusting her frosting-stained apron, and chatted with a delivery man who was gesticulating excessively. Even from a distance, Enzo recognized her demeanor: firm on the outside, shaky on the inside.

Without thinking, he pushed his chair back, ignoring Lucas's confused look.

"Where are you going?" the partner asked, trying to grab her arm.

"Solve it my way."

Lucas let out a mocking laugh. "Be careful not to mix up bed and contract, Albuquerque."

Enzo looked at her with a look that could have frozen the entire cafe. He didn't respond. He simply left, slamming a few bills onto the table with long strides.

Across the street, Clara almost dropped one of the boxes. The delivery man, in his haste, didn't help her at all: he left everything leaning against the wall and disappeared on his noisy motorcycle. The box almost slipped, scattering candy wrappers onto the sidewalk.

"Damn..." she muttered, trying to regain her balance.

"Need help?" The voice sounded behind her, so close that Clara shuddered before she even turned around. The scent of woody perfume mingled with the warm air outside.

Turning around, she saw the impeccable gray jacket first. Then she saw the face she knew better than she cared to admit: the suppressed smile, the dark eyes that seemed to scrutinize every weakness before it appeared.

"Enzo."

She smiled, as calmly as ever. "Clarita."

She felt like laughing at the nickname. She wasn't Clarita anymore. She didn't look anything like him anymore.

"What do you want?"

Enzo took one of the boxes from her hands, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Can't I help an old friend?"

"I'm not your friend," she retorted, trying to get the box back. He didn't let go.

For a second, their fingers brushed. It was brief, but enough for an electric current to pass from his eyes to hers.

"Then let me help you as..." He paused, giving a faint smile. "...as a creditor."

Clara felt a knot in her stomach. "You won't be able to buy me, Enzo."

She burst out laughing, leaning the box against her hip to speak closer. "Who said I want to buy you?"

She snorted, brushing past him and opening the bakery door. He followed her, carrying the box as if he owned the place, which, in a way, he did. Inside, Enzo looked around, lingering at the counter, the old clock, the sweet scent of childhood that still lingered.

"I know every corner of this place," he said, as if talking to himself. "You haven't changed a bit." Clara took the box from his hands, placed it behind the counter, and crossed her arms. "Get to the point, Enzo. Why are you here?"

She approached the counter, lightly tapping her fingertips on the marble. His gaze fixed on hers, intense, unreadable.

"Because I can save you, Clara," he said, his tone so calm it almost sounded cruel. "And because I know you can't do it alone."

She felt her world spinning. For a second, she wanted to throw the rag in his face, throw him out. But something in his eyes, somewhere between desire and regret, made her stop.

On the other side of the glass, the street bustled. But inside, it was just the two of them, trapped in an ancient game of unspoken promises and debts that no contract could settle.