That morning, Madrid seemed grayer than usual, and yet I was strangely cheerful. My name is Sofia, and I was busy smoothing the tie of my husband Ricardo, who was standing straight in front of the large mirror in our bedroom. Our luxurious house in La Moraleja had been the silent witness to five years of what I believed to be happiness. At least… that’s what I believed until that day.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to pack something for you for the drive?” I asked softly, patting his ample chest.
“Valencia is a long way.”
Ricardo smiled—that kind of smile that always dispelled my worries. He placed a long kiss on my forehead.
“No, my love. I’m in a hurry. The client in Valencia needs an urgent meeting tonight. This project is important for my portfolio. I want to prove to your father that I can succeed without needing his family name.”
I nodded, proud of him. Ricardo was a “hard-working” husband… even though, in reality, the money for his business, his Mitsubishi Montero, and his designer suits came from me—dividends from the company I had inherited and now ran. But I never pointed that out to him. In marriage, what’s mine is his too… isn’t it?
“Be careful,” I told him. “Text me when you get to the hotel.”
He nodded, took his keys, and left. I watched him disappear behind the carved oak door and felt a slight, unsettling tightness in my chest. A warning I ignored. Perhaps it was simply the guilty relief of having the house to myself for a few days.
Later that afternoon, after several meetings at the office, my thoughts turned to Laura, my best friend since college. She’d texted me the day before, saying she’d been admitted to the hospital in Segovia with a severe case of typhoid fever. Laura was living alone in this unfamiliar city. I’d always tried to help her. The small house she was staying in was one of my properties, and I’d let her stay there for free out of compassion.
“Poor Laura,” I murmured. “She must feel so lonely.”
I glanced at the time: 2 p.m. My afternoon was suddenly free, and an idea came to me: why not go see her? Segovia was only a two-hour drive away if the traffic was light. I could surprise her with her favorite cocido and a basket of fresh fruit.
I called my driver, José, then remembered he’d pretended to be sick. So I got in my red Mercedes and drove myself, imagining Laura’s face lighting up when she saw me. I’d even planned to call Ricardo later to tell him how kind his wife was. I could already hear his compliments.
At 5 p.m., I arrived in the parking lot of a luxury private hospital in Segovia. Laura had told me she was in VIP room 305.
VIP.
That alone made me blink. Laura didn’t work. How could she afford a suite like that? But optimism quickly overcame my suspicions. Maybe she had some savings. And if not, so be it. I’d pay.
Fruit basket in hand, I walked through corridors that smelled of antiseptic, even though everything still seemed immaculate and luxurious. My footsteps echoed on the marble. My heart wasn’t afraid, it was impatient.
The elevator beeped on the third floor. I found room 305 at the end of a quiet corridor, a little secluded. And as I approached, I noticed that the door wasn’t completely closed, just ajar.
I reached up to knock… then froze.
Laughter escaped.
