YOU'RE NOT UGLY... YOU JUST NEED TO MAKE YOURSELF LOOK BETTER AND MARRY ME

Alma Ríos didn't know when she'd started living with a knot in her stomach. Maybe it was the day her name appeared in a mass email from the Faculty: "Plagiarism investigation underway." Or maybe it was when, weeks later, her key stopped working and the landlord spoke to her from the other side, as if she were a dangerous stranger. The truth was, at thirty-two, the former Literature professor found herself rummaging through a trash can in Guadalajara's main square, looking for scraps that didn't yet smell of defeat.

The sun was setting, and the shadow of the Cathedral stretched its fingers across the ground. Alma carefully separated a piece of bread wrapped in a napkin. It wasn't disgust that frightened her: it was that someone would see her and recognize her.

"You're not ugly," a male voice said, too close. "You just need to dress better... and marry me."

Alma froze, the plastic bag pressed against her chest like a shield. She looked up. The man was tall, impeccably dressed in a suit, with polished shoes and a self-assurance that seemed impossible in a world where people pretended not to see it.

"Excuse me?" he whispered.

The stranger, without waiting for a reply, knelt right there, amidst the flow of tourists and vendors. He took out a small red box and opened it. A ring flashed mockingly in the last light of the setting sun.

"I know it sounds absurd," he said. "But I need your help."

Alma took a step back.

"Stand up. You're... making a fool of yourself."

"I'm not crazy. I'm desperate."

Several people stopped. A child tugged at his mother's sleeve to point. Alma felt the heat of their stares, that fire that burns hotter than hunger.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Gael Navarro," he replied, carefully closing the box. And I have twenty-three days to get married or I lose my family's company.

Alma let out a short, dry laugh.

"And you think the solution is… to buy a wife off the street?"

Gael's eyes didn't narrow, they weren't offended. Rather, they hardened as if accepting the blow because they deserved it.

"It's not charity," he said. "It's a deal. You help me, I'll help you."

Alma pressed her arms against her body. Her clothes were only half-clean; her hair, tied back with a tight elastic band, looked like a confession. And yet, inside her, there still existed that part of her that corrected essays with red ink and argued about metaphors as if they were matters of life and death.

"Explain yourself."

Gael stood up slowly, without invading her space.

"My grandfather left a clause: if I'm not married before I'm thirty-five, everything goes to my cousin Renata." And Renata… —her mouth tightened— doesn’t want the company to keep it going. She wants to sell it off piecemeal.

“And why me?”

Gael put the ring away, as if he didn’t want to use it to pressure her.

“Because I’ve seen you here for several weeks. You don’t insult, you don’t beg. Even when they treat you badly, you say thank you. You have dignity.”

That word, dignity, hit Alma hard in the chest, a painful truth. She tried to look away, but it was too late: emotion had already welled up in her eyes.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you didn’t choose to be here,” Gael said, with a certainty that frightened her. “And I know someone ruined your life.”

Alma swallowed, anger mixed with shame.

“Marriage isn’t a game.”

“It would only be on paper. Six months. No intimacy, if that’s what you want.” I'll give you five hundred thousand pesos. Half now. Half later. And… —she paused, as if measuring something— you help me convince my grandfather that this is real.

Five hundred thousand. The number hammered into her head. With that, she could pay a decent lawyer, eat without fear, rent a room again. With that, she could fight. She could, finally, stop being a dirty rumor.

"I have conditions," she said, surprised by her own words.

Gael nodded.

"Tell me."

"Separate rooms. Nothing physical. And when this is over… you help me clear my name."

Gael looked at her as if she had just confirmed something.

"What did they do to you?"

Alma hesitated, because saying it would reopen the wound.

"They accused me of plagiarism. It was a lie. They destroyed me."

Gael's eyes, for a moment, revealed something deeper than urgency: a silent fury.

"I accept," he said. "Thursday, seven o'clock at night. If you come, we'll start. If not, I won't look for you."

He handed her a card. Thick paper, gold lettering, an address in Puerta de Hierro. Before leaving, he added without turning around:

"There's a shelter two blocks away. They serve dinner before eight. Go."

That night Alma slept on the bench, but she wasn't the same anymore. The fear was still there, yes, like a rat that won't leave. But amidst the fear, a spark ignited: the dangerous idea that destiny could change in two days.

On Thursday, at 6:58, Alma touched the intercom with a trembling finger.

"Good evening," a woman answered. "Who is this?"