You tell him what you heard. You tell him the date. You tell him the word accident. You do not cry, because your body has decided tears are a luxury you can’t afford right now.
The lawyer listens, then says, “We’ll make sure you’re not alone when they try.”
That night, you go home and act like nothing has changed. You laugh at Álvaro’s jokes. You let Teresa kiss your cheek with her cold lips when she visits. You play your role so well you almost scare yourself.
And while they watch you, you watch them back.
Teresa comes over the next morning with pastries and sympathy. She tells you you look pale. She tells you grief can do strange things. She sits at your kitchen table like she owns it, and she slides a folder toward you with a smile that feels like a knife.
“This is standard,” she says. “Just a formality. Álvaro will take care of everything.”
You open the folder slowly. You read every line. You pretend to stumble over legal phrases. You ask questions in a soft, confused voice. You make yourself small, because they like you small.
It’s a power of attorney, exactly as you suspected. Broad. Permanent. Devouring. It would hand your inheritance to Álvaro like a wrapped gift.
Teresa watches your face for fear.
You give her the fear she wants, but not the fear she expects. You let your fingers tremble. You bite your lip. You whisper, “I don’t know.”
Álvaro kneels beside your chair, his hand warm on your knee. “Trust me,” he says, and his eyes beg in a way that might have worked before you heard him rehearse your death in the kitchen.
You look at the signature line. Your pen hovers.
Then you drop the pen as if you can’t hold it.
“I need a minute,” you say, breathy. “My head is spinning.”
Teresa’s patience thins. It shows in the way her smile stiffens. “Lucía,” she says, sweetly sharp, “we don’t want to miss the deadline.”
“Deadline,” you echo, and your voice turns fragile. “What deadline?”
Teresa’s eyes flick to Álvaro, and the air changes. Álvaro squeezes your knee harder, a subtle warning, a hidden bruise in advance.
“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just… paperwork.”
You nod and stand. “I’m going to lie down.”
In the bedroom, you lock the door and breathe into a pillow until your lungs stop shaking. Then you pull out your phone and send one word to the lawyer: Now.
His response comes immediately: Leave the house. Do not confront. Meet me at the notary’s office in one hour.
You stare at the message, then at the door. Your house suddenly feels like a stage set where the props have teeth.
You pack a small bag. You take your passport, your grandmother’s letter, the copies. You take nothing sentimental because sentiment slows you down. You slip out through the back, using the old garden gate your grandmother once joked was “for escape, if you marry wrong.”
You don’t know if she meant it literally. You do now.
At the notary’s office, the lawyer meets you with a calm face and tired eyes. He escorts you into a small conference room, and a notary you’ve never seen before closes the door gently.
“We have reason to believe someone may attempt to coerce your signature,” the lawyer says. “We’re documenting everything.”
You swallow. “Can you stop them?”
“We can,” he says. “But you must be willing to let them show their hand.”
You stare at the table. The idea of letting them get close again makes your skin crawl. But you also know the truth: if you run without proof, they will chase you forever. If you fight with proof, you might end it.
You nod once, slow, like the nod belongs to someone older than you were yesterday.
The plan is simple and terrifying. You will go to the scheduled appointment on the exact date, in a controlled environment. The notary will insist on private consultation. Your lawyer will be present. Security will be present. And your signature, if it happens, will be on the right paper, not theirs.
Meanwhile, the police will be alerted, not with a dramatic accusation, but with documented concern, official notes, prior patterns. Your grandmother’s letter becomes evidence. The building manager’s statement becomes a thread. Everything starts to connect into something real enough to hold.
When you return home that evening, Álvaro is in the living room with Teresa. They look up like synchronized swimmers, their faces forming concern.
“Where were you?” Álvaro asks, too quickly.
You shrug, soft. “I needed air.”
Teresa’s eyes narrow, just a fraction. “You shouldn’t wander alone when you’re… emotional.”
You sit carefully, like you are fragile glass. “I’m okay.”
Álvaro slides closer. “We have the appointment scheduled,” he says. “We’ll go together. I’ll drive. You won’t have to think.”
You smile. “Okay.”
Teresa exhales, satisfied. “Good girl.”
You almost choke on the words, but you swallow them down. You remind yourself you are not here to win an argument. You are here to survive a date.
The days leading up to it feel like walking with a countdown clock strapped to your chest. Teresa becomes sweeter, which makes her more terrifying. Álvaro becomes attentive, which makes him feel like a stranger wearing your husband’s face.
