That morning, Madrid seemed darker than usual—yet my mood was unexpectedly light. My name is Sofia, and I was carefully straightening my husband Ricardo’s tie as he stood confidently before the oversized mirror in our master bedroom. Our lavish home in La Moraleja had silently witnessed five years of what I believed was happiness. Or at least… what I thought was happiness—until that day.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to prepare something for the drive?” I asked gently, smoothing his chest.
“Valencia is quite far.”
Ricardo smiled—the same smile that always eased my doubts. He leaned down and placed a lingering kiss on my forehead.
“No, my love. I’m pressed for time. 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 hiding behind your family name.
I nodded, feeling proud of him. Ricardo was a “hard-working” husband… even though the reality was that the capital for his business, the Mitsubishi Montero he drove, and the tailored suits he wore all came from me—from dividends of the company I inherited and now managed. Still, I never mentioned it. In a marriage, what’s mine is his too… right?
“Be careful,” I said. “Text me when you reach the hotel.”
He agreed, picked up his keys, and walked out. I watched him disappear through the carved oak door—and felt a faint, unsettling pull in my chest. A warning I chose to ignore. Maybe it was just the guilty comfort of having the house to myself for a few days.
