Damian sat staring blankly at some point on the wall. Suddenly, his whole life looked different. He wasn’t the successful businessman who had conquered Barcelona with his work.
He was just a very well-paid employee. At his ex-wife’s company, “Your Honor,” Jordi said in a professional tone. “I request that the divorce proceed according to the agreed terms. Ms. Montalvo has no interest in altering Mr. Hurtado’s employment status.”
He can continue as the company’s administrator under the new circumstances. Cristina stood up slowly, one hand resting on her swollen belly. She walked over to the table where Damian still stood frozen and leaned slightly toward him.
“This isn’t revenge, Damian,” she whispered. “It’s justice. And justice for our son, who at least will have a secure future.” When she stood up, there were tears in her eyes, but they weren’t tears of sadness; they were tears of liberation.
Courthouse lobby. 11:15 a.m., Ru Díaz had taken refuge in the ladies’ bathroom on the second floor, observing her reflection in the mirror while trying to fix the mascara that had run down her cheeks.
Her hands trembled as she applied concealer under her puffy eyes. In less than an hour, her perfect world had crumbled like a house of cards. She had imagined this day as the beginning of her new life.
The wife of the successful businessman, the woman who had achieved everything Cristina had lost for being too naive. But now, it turned out that Damián was nothing more than a very well-dressed employee.
Her phone vibrated. A message from her mother. “You’re husband and wife now, I can’t wait to tell the neighbors.” Ruth let out a bitter laugh. How could she explain to her mother that she’d married a man who had nothing?
How could he explain to his Instagram friends, who had followed every step of his romantic conquest, that it had all been an illusion? Meanwhile, in the main lobby, Damian sat on one of the green marble benches, his gaze lost in the neoclassical columns of the building.
The divorce papers rested on his knees, signed, but still damp with reality. Beside him, his lawyer, Miguel Santos, silently packed the documents into his briefcase. “How could you not know this?” Damian murmured, “more to himself than to Miguel.”
We’ve been working together since 2018. Miguel loosened his mustard-colored tie, clearly uncomfortable. Damian, I only handle construction contracts and insurance. Your accountant, Elena Ruiz, takes care of the business matters.
I assumed you were the owner because, well, because you always acted like one, but I have access to all the accounts, I make all the operational decisions. That’s perfectly compatible with being an administrator without being the owner.
It’s more common than you think in family businesses. Damian ran his hands through his hair; his company, his success, his identity—all built on shifting sands without him realizing how blind he’d been.
Cristina appeared in the lobby accompanied by her lawyer and her mother, Sonia, who had come up from the parking garage after receiving an urgent call. The older woman looked at her son-in-law with a mixture of sadness and disappointment.
Cristina Damián stood up when she saw her approaching. “We need to talk.” “There’s nothing left to talk about, Damián. The papers are signed. I’m not referring to the divorce, I’m referring to all of this,” she gestured vaguely toward the documents.
“How long have you known?” Cristina stopped a few feet away from him. Her mother and Jordi kept a discreet distance, but close enough to intervene if necessary. “How long have you known I owned the company?”
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