And a man’s voice—warm, teasing, painfully familiar—cut my blood short.
“Open your mouth, darling. Here comes the little plane…”
My heart skipped a beat. That voice had brushed my forehead that morning. That voice had promised me Valencia.
No. Impossible.
Trembling, I approached the half-open door and held my breath as I peered inside.
The scene hit me like a ton of bricks.
Laura was sitting upright on the bed—healthy, radiant, not at all pale. She was wearing satin pajamas, not a hospital gown. And beside her, Ricardo,
my husband, was feeding her apple slices with tender patience.
His gaze was gentle—as devoted as it had been in the early days of our marriage.
“My wife is so spoiled,” Ricardo murmured, wiping the corner of Laura’s lips with his thumb.
My wife.
The hallway tilted. I had to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing.
Then Laura’s voice—soft, plaintive, intimate—rose like poison.
“When are you going to tell Sofia? I’m tired of hiding. And now, I’m only a few weeks pregnant. Our child needs to be recognized.”
Pregnant.
Our child.
I felt like a lightning bolt had pierced my chest.
Ricardo put down the plate and took Laura’s hands in his, kissing her knuckles as if she were a queen.
“Be patient. If I divorce Sofia now, I’ll lose everything. She’s cunning: everything is in her name. The car, the watch, the project’s capital… all her money.” He let out a small laugh, almost admiring of my usefulness. “But don’t worry. We’ve been secretly married for two years.”
Laura pouted. “So you’re going to continue being her parasite?” “You said you were proud of it.”
Ricardo laughed a casual, confident laugh.
“Precisely because I am proud. I need more capital first. I siphoned money from her company into my account: cost overruns, bogus projects. Just wait. When we have enough savings for our own apartment and our own business, I’m kicking her out. I’m tired of pretending to be nice to her. She’s bossy. You’re better off… you’re submissive.”
Laura giggled.
“Is the house in Segovia safe? Won’t Sofia claim it?”
“It’s safe,” he replied. “The deed isn’t in my name yet, but Sofia is naive. She thinks the house is empty. She doesn’t know that the ‘poor friend’ she’s helping is the queen in her husband’s heart.” They laughed together
—a bright, carefree, cruel laugh.
My hands gripped the fruit bowl so tightly the handle bit into my skin. I wanted to break down the door. I wanted to tear his hair out, slap him until he forgot how to lie.
But a voice—old advice I’d heard once—pierced my rage:
If an enemy attacks, don’t fight with your emotions. Strike when he least expects it. Destroy the foundations, then bring the whole building crashing down.
My trembling hand slipped into my pocket. I took out my state-of-the-art phone, put it on silent mode, and activated video recording. Carefully, I pointed the lens through the crack.
I filmed everything.
Ricardo kissing Laura’s stomach. Their “secret wedding.” Their confessions of embezzlement. Their laughter at my generosity. All of it, clear and unforgiving in 4K.
Five minutes that felt like an eternity.
Then I backed away and left, step by step, swallowing the sobs that tore at my throat. In an empty waiting room, I finally sat down, staring at the recorded video on my screen.
Tears fell, for a brief moment.
I wiped them away with the back of my hand.
Crying wasn’t pointless.
“So, all this time…” I whispered, my voice trembling, love turning into something colder. “I slept with a snake.”
Laura, the friend I considered a sister, was a leech with a mocking smile. I remembered her fake tears when she claimed she didn’t have money for food, and the extra credit card I’d given her. I remembered Ricardo’s excuses about his “overtime,” probably spent at my house with the woman I was housing.
The pain froze.
I opened my banking app. I had full access to everything, including the trading account Ricardo “managed,” since I was the actual owner. My fingers started tapping.
Checking his balance.
€30,000 that should have been for a project.
Checking the transactions.
Transfers to shops. Jewelry. A gynecology clinic in Segovia.
“Enjoy your laughs,” I hissed. “While you still can.”
I wasn’t going to face them in this room. That would be too easy: tears, pleading, apologies, cheap theater.
