“I see,” I breathed out, my voice dropping an octave. The wounded wife died right then, there in the glass tower in Polanco. In her place, something else awakened. Something cold, deliberate, and extraordinarily dangerous.
“Don’t make a scene, Sofía,” Lidia continued, misinterpreting my silence for submission. “Mauricio will be moving his things out eventually, but they’ll be living in the house for now until they find a suitable place for the baby. You have enough money to rent a nice apartment. We expect you to be civil about the financial transition. After all, Mauricio supported you emotionally through building your company.”
They believed I was weak because I loved deeply. They believed that because I had tolerated Mauricio’s extravagance and ignored the quiet rumors, trusting that loyalty would eventually return to me, I was a fool. They assumed I would continue financing their comfort out of sheer habit, that heartbreak would paralyze me into a generous depression rather than awaken cold calculation.
What they forgot, perhaps blinded by their own staggering arrogance and greed, was one essential legal detail that defined the entire architecture of their illusion.
Everything was in my name.
