Mauricio Ríos, my charming, handsome, and chronically ambitious husband, had long since grown accustomed to this luxury. He wore my success like a bespoke suit, treating our wealth as if it were a birthright rather than a hard-won privilege financed entirely by my signature. That evening, he was supposedly on a business trip in Singapore, attending high-level financial conferences he rarely described in detail. He always promised exotic souvenirs and distracted affection upon his return, and I, blinded by a stubborn loyalty, had always accepted the scraps he offered.
I picked up my phone from the mahogany desk. My neck ached from hours of reviewing legal clauses. Softening despite my exhaustion, I tapped out a message that now feels painfully, humiliatingly naïve: Take care, Mauricio. I miss you very much. The deal closed. We celebrate when you’re home.
The message delivered instantly. A tiny blue double-check appeared on the screen. But no reply came. An uneasy silence lingered, stretching longer than it should have between two people who shared a bed, a name, and a life.
To distract myself from the creeping anxiety in my chest, I opened Instagram. My intention was only to scroll mindlessly for a few seconds, to let the bright colors of other people’s curated lives wash over my tired brain before I called my driver to head home to the mansion I alone was paying for.
