That morning, Madrid looked gloomier than usual, yet oddly enough, I was in a cheerful mood.
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My name is Sofia, and I was straightening my husband Ricardo’s tie while he stood tall in front of the massive mirror in our suite.
Our lavish home in La Moraleja had quietly witnessed five years of what I believed was happiness. At least… that’s what I believed until that day.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to prepare anything for the trip?” I asked gently, brushing my hand over his broad chest.
“Valencia is far away.”
Ricardo smiled—the same smile that always eased my worries—and pressed a slow kiss to my forehead.
“No, darling. I’m in a hurry. The client in Valencia wants 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 name.”
I nodded with pride. Ricardo was a “hard-working” husband… though the truth was that the money for his company, the Mitsubishi Montero he drove, and the designer suits he wore all came from me: from the dividends of the company I inherited and now managed.
But I never resented it. In marriage, what belongs to me belongs to him too… right?
“Be careful,” I said. “Text me when you get to the hotel.”
He agreed, grabbed his keys, and walked out. I watched him vanish behind the carved oak door and felt a faint, uneasy tug in my chest.
A warning I chose to ignore. Maybe it was only the guilty relief of having the house to myself for a few days.
Later that afternoon, after several meetings at the office, I thought about Laura, my best friend since college.
She had texted me the day before saying she’d been admitted to a hospital in Segovia with acute typhoid fever.
Laura lived alone in that city, which was unfamiliar to me. I had always tried to support her. The small house she lived in actually belonged to me, and out of kindness I let her stay there without paying rent.
“Poor Laura,” I murmured. “She must be so lonely.”
I checked the time: two o’clock. Suddenly, the afternoon stretched wide open in front of me, and an idea formed—why not visit her? Segovia was only a couple of hours away if traffic was light.
I could surprise her with her favorite stew and a basket of fresh fruit.
I called my driver, José, then remembered I had already told the office I was sick. So instead I took my red Mercedes and drove myself, imagining Laura’s face lighting up when she saw me.
I even thought about calling Ricardo later and telling him what a wonderful husband he was. I could already picture him praising me.
At five o’clock I pulled into the parking lot of an elegant private hospital in Segovia. Laura had told me she was in VIP suite 305.
VIP.
That alone made me pause. Laura didn’t work. How could she possibly afford a room like that? But my optimism quickly brushed away the doubt. Maybe she had savings. And if she didn’t, it didn’t matter. I would cover it.
Holding the fruit basket, I walked down hallways that smelled faintly of antiseptic, though everything looked spotless and expensive. My footsteps echoed across the marble floors.
My heart wasn’t afraid—just restless.
The elevator chimed on the third floor. I located room 305 at the end of a quiet, slightly isolated corridor. As I approached, I noticed the door wasn’t fully closed—just slightly ajar.
I lifted my hand to knock… and froze.
A laugh drifted out from inside.
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Then a male voice—warm, playful, and painfully familiar—sent a chill through my entire body.
“Open your mouth, darling. Here comes the little airplane…”
My stomach dropped. That voice had kissed my forehead that very morning. That voice had promised me Valencia.
No. It couldn’t be.
Shaking, I moved closer to the crack in the door and held my breath as I looked inside.
The sight struck me like lightning.
Laura was sitting up in the bed, perfectly healthy, glowing, not pale at all. She wore satin pajamas instead of a hospital gown. And beside her, patiently feeding her slices of apple, was Ricardo.
My husband.
The way he looked at her was gentle, devoted—the same way he used to look at me at the beginning of our marriage.
“My wife is so spoiled,” Ricardo murmured as he wiped the corner of Laura’s lips with his thumb.
My wife.
The hallway seemed to tilt around me. I had to press my shoulder against the wall to stop myself from collapsing.
Then Laura’s voice—soft, pleading, intimate—drifted out like venom.
“When are you going to tell Sofia? I’m tired of hiding. Besides… I’m a few weeks pregnant. We have to acknowledge our child.”
Pregnant.
Our child.
It felt as though lightning had split my chest open.
Ricardo set the plate aside, took Laura’s hands, and kissed her fingers as though she were royalty.
“Be patient. If I divorce Sofia now, I’ll lose everything. She’s clever; everything is in her name. The car, the watch, the project capital… it’s all hers.”
She gave a small laugh, almost amused by how useful I was.
“But don’t worry. We’ve been secretly married for two years.”
Laura pouted.
“So you’re going to continue being his parasite? You said you were proud of it.”
Ricardo chuckled easily, full of confidence.
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