Cristina lowered the window just a few inches. “Shall we go?” Damian asked with feigned courtesy. “The judge is expecting us at 10 o’clock sharp.” “Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep the judge waiting on the most important day of your life,” Cristina replied, opening the car door.
Ruth approached with that venomous smile she’d perfected over the last few months. “Cristina, darling, I hope there are no hard feelings. After all, this is what’s best for everyone.”
Damian needed a woman who was his professional equal. His eyes lingered deliberately on Cristina’s swollen belly. “And you, well, you have other priorities now.” The words floated in the air like daggers wrapped in velvet.
Sonia made a move to get out of the car, but Cristina discreetly gestured for her to stay. “You’re right, Ru!” Cristina said with a calmness that surprised even Damian.
Priorities change, and today you’re going to find out exactly what mine are. Something in his tone made Ru frown, but Damian was already walking toward the courthouse entrance, nervously checking his phone.
She had an important video call with some German investors that afternoon and wanted to finish this matter as soon as possible. “Come on, we’re going to be late,” she shouted without turning around. As they climbed the marble stairs of the building, Cristina felt her son move restlessly in her womb, as if he
She also knew that that day would mark the beginning of a new life, a life where she would never again have to pretend that she didn’t see the knowing glances between her husband and his lover, a life where she could finally sleep in peace.
Ruth walked a few steps ahead, swaying like a model on a catwalk. Every step calculated to mark her territory, every gesture designed to humiliate. But what Ruth didn’t know was that Cristina had stopped feeling humiliated a long time ago.
In the elevator, as the numbers slowly lit up until they reached the fifth floor, Damian checked the papers in his Italian leather briefcase one last time. Everything in order?
Ruth asked, placing her hand possessively on his arm. “Of course, in an hour this will all be over and we can start our new life without complications.” Cristina remained silent, her gaze fixed on the elevator numbers.
When the doors opened with a soft ping, she smiled inwardly. In an hour, it would all be over, but not as they had imagined. Courtroom TR. Court of First Instance.
10:05 in the morning. The courtroom was filled with old papers and irrevocable decisions. Cristina settled into the honey-lacquered wooden chair, feeling her son kicking forcefully, as if protesting against the tension that hung in the air.
To his right, his lawyer, Jordi Bals, meticulously arranged the documents on the table. His experienced hands handled each paper as if it were a chess piece. Judge Martínez, a 60-year-old man with black-rimmed glasses and a perfectly trimmed silver beard, glanced through the file with a neutral expression.
He had seen hundreds of divorces, marriages that crumbled due to infidelity, irreconcilable differences, or simple wear and tear, but something in this case had caught his attention during the preliminary reading. “Good,” the judge said, looking up.
We are proceeding with the dissolution of the marriage between Damián Hurtado Mendoza and Cristina Montalvo García. Mr. Hurtado, you confirm your petition for divorce by mutual consent. Damián straightened up in his seat, radiating the businesslike confidence he had cultivated over the years.
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