“Good.”

“But it’s no longer a problem you need to solve.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means enjoy your dinner.”

I ended the call.

On December twenty-third, I picked Olivia up from the airport and drove north.

When we passed through the villa gate, she stared at me.

“Where are we?”

“Home.”

The house appeared around the curve.

Olivia stopped talking.

That alone was worth six million dollars.

She remained in the car.

“Margarita.”

“Yes?”

“Whose house is this?”

“Mine.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Stop.”

I unlocked the door.

“Welcome.”

She walked slowly through the living room, kitchen, library, and finally onto the terrace overlooking the ocean.

“How?”

“With money.”

“What money?”

We sat down.

For the next hour, I told her about Armando’s investments, Leonardo, property sales, partnerships, and fifteen years of reinvesting.

“How much are we talking about?”

“A little under fifty million.”

She froze.

“Dollars?”

“Yes.”

She looked at my old handbag.

“That thing is eight years old.”

“It still works.”

She laughed, then her eyes filled.

“Why didn’t you tell Hugo?”

“At first because it was private.”

“And later?”

“I wanted to know how people treated me when they believed I had nothing to give them.”

Olivia lowered her eyes.

“Now you know.”

“Yes.”

Christmas Eve morning, Hugo called.