It’s about control.
Your control.
“I agree,” you say.
Javier’s eyes widen.
Sofía’s mouth opens in silent outrage.
The attorney watches you carefully, then nods like she just confirmed something about your character.
“You understand,” she says. “This will become public.”
You lift your chin.
“Let it,” you reply.
That afternoon, news moves fast, because money always has ears.
By evening, Javier’s suspension is whispered in boardrooms and shouted in private chats.
Sofía’s name appears in internal memos like a stain.
Javier doesn’t go home.
He goes straight to damage control.
But you do go home.
Not to beg.
To reclaim.
You walk into the apartment you once shared with him, the one filled with expensive furniture that suddenly looks like props.
You go to the nursery.
The room still smells faintly of baby powder and grief.
You stand there for a long moment, letting the pain press into you.
Then you pick up the tiny blanket you held at the funeral.
You fold it carefully and place it in a box, not because you want to hide it, but because you refuse to let the world trample it.
When your phone buzzes, you expect Javier.
But it’s a new message.
Unknown number.
Stop digging or you’ll join the baby.
Your body goes cold.
Your fingers tremble as you stare at the screen.
You don’t cry.
You take a screenshot.
Then you forward it to the attorney and to Don Manuel’s security team.
Because this is the part Javier never understood: you are no longer fighting alone.
The next day, the audit reveals more.
Not just inflated invoices, but bribery, kickbacks, and a hidden debt Javier took out using company leverage.
The board meets.
Your presence in the room is quiet but undeniable.
Javier tries to spin it as “a misunderstanding.”
Sofía tries to disappear.
But digital trails don’t care about charm.
When the board votes to terminate Javier and cooperate with investigators, he finally breaks.
He shows up at the building, face wild, eyes bloodshot, demanding to see you.
