The mansion in Bosques de las Lomas had been purchased before my marriage, with my money, under a trust created by my father years ago. Mauricio had lived there like a king, but legally, he had never owned a single tile.
Still, he had apparently promised Valentina the house.
I learned that from an email Victor found between Mauricio and a luxury interior designer.
“My new wife prefers warmer tones. Once we return, I want Amara’s office turned into a nursery or dressing room. Remove anything too severe. This house needs feminine energy.”
My office.
My house.
His new wife.
I read that sentence three times.
Then I laughed.
It was not a happy sound.
“Sell it,” I said.
Victor looked up. “The house?”
“Yes.”
“Amara, that is a major decision.”
“No,” I said. “It was a major decision when he decided to bring another woman into it. This is housekeeping.”
The buyer appeared faster than expected.
A developer had wanted the land for years. He made an offer so generous Victor thought I should negotiate.
I didn’t.
I accepted.
The closing happened in seventy-two hours.
The staff were paid six months in advance and offered transfers. My personal belongings were moved to a penthouse I owned quietly under another holding company. The locks were changed. The security codes were reset. The cars were removed.
By the time Mauricio returned from his honeymoon, the mansion was no longer mine.
And it was certainly not his.
He called me at 8:43 p.m.
I was standing in my new apartment, barefoot, drinking tea.
His name flashed across my screen.
For one second, I imagined the version of myself from years ago — the woman who would have answered with worry, asking if he had landed safely.
That woman was gone.
I let it ring twice.
Then I answered.
“Hello, Mauricio.”
His breathing was harsh.
