Two years after my husband divorced me and married my best friend, I was hiding under the bridge, freezing cold, my clothes clinging to my body and my pride shattered, when a luxurious black SUV screeched to a halt in front of me; the rear door opened and, to my horror, my wealthy father-in-law stepped out, pale, his voice trembling as he looked at me as if he saw a ghost and muttered, “Get in the car, I was told you were de.ad.”

Not just fear.

Also a strange sense of satisfaction.
Two weeks later, Ernesto summoned me to a discreet café in Chamberí. He arrived in his dark suit with a folder thicker than the previous one.

“This is enough,” he said, without even asking me to sit down. “My lawyers are already working. There will be a surprise inspection from the tax authorities and another from the Economic Crimes Unit.”

“And me?” I asked. “What will happen to me when everything explodes?”

Ernesto looked at me the way one looks at a tool that has worked even better than expected.

“When this is over, you’ll be free,” he replied. “You’ll have enough money to never go back to a bridge. And if you’re smart, no one will ever know who you really are.”

I nodded, but didn’t move.

“I want one more thing,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I want to be there,” I added. “I want to see when they find out.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Ernesto smiled for the first time since we had reunited.

“You’re more like me than I thought,” he murmured. “Fine. I’ll arrange it.”