On gifts for women whose names she never learned.
“And my belongings?” Mariana asked quietly. “My phone? My clothes? My personal things?”
Sebastián stood and adjusted the cuff of his jacket.
“Anything purchased with my money remains mine,” he said. “Security will supervise the packing. You have two hours. No jewelry. No electronics.”
Then he paused.
“And don’t embarrass yourself in front of Emiliano.”
Their son.
Eight years old.
At school that morning, completely unaware that his mother was being erased from his life while he sat in math class.
The penthouse on Paseo de la Reforma no longer felt like home when Mariana returned that afternoon.
It felt like a crime scene.
Two security guards waited by the elevator holding black trash bags.
For illustrative purposes only
Trash bags.
The same woman who had once hosted senators, investors, and celebrities in that apartment was now being ordered to stuff her life into plastic bags like garbage being removed from a building.
One guard avoided looking directly at her.
The other watched her carefully, making sure she didn’t “steal” anything.
Mariana moved through the penthouse in a daze.
The marble floors.
The grand piano she had chosen.
The family photographs already missing from the walls.
Evidence of her existence disappearing in real time.
She packed old sweaters, worn sneakers, a few jeans Sebastián no longer considered valuable enough to fight over.
Then came the humiliation she would never forget.
A female assistant appeared with a checklist.
“Your phone, please.”
