Conversation died like a roomful of candles going out.
“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Leo’s voice rose from the living room.
María’s stomach dropped so hard she felt it in her knees.
She stepped to the kitchen doorway and looked out.
Fifty faces turned toward her husband, expectant, amused, ready for a toast or a romantic speech. Phones subtly lifted. Smiles prepared. People loved a performance, especially one they didn’t have to pay for.
Leo lifted his champagne flute. His eyes found María.
And for a single breath, there was no warmth in his expression.
Only calculation.
“I need to say something important,” he announced, voice smooth. “I’ve been pretending for a long time, and I can’t do it anymore.”
A hush spread. A few people chuckled nervously, thinking it was a joke. A playful surprise.
Then Leo said, clear and crisp:
“María—I want a divorce.”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
María didn’t process it immediately. Not because she was stupid. Because her mind refused to accept the cruelty of the stage he’d chosen.
Not a conversation in private.
Not a quiet separation.
A public firing.
Leo continued, his tone almost apologetic—almost—like he was the hero making a hard choice.
“I’m sorry to do this here,” he said, in a voice that held zero regret. “But I’ve carried this too long. I married you thinking you’d grow—thinking you’d become… appropriate for this life.”
A few guests shifted. Someone looked down at their glass. Graciela stood near the fireplace, expression satisfied.
“But you didn’t,” Leo said. “You’re still the same girl from that little bookstore, happy with tiny dreams.”
María’s throat closed. Words climbed up and died halfway out.
Leo’s gaze swept the room, feeding off the attention.
“You’re comfortable being invisible,” he told her. “And I need someone beside me—not behind me… serving drinks.”
That line drew a couple of uncomfortable laughs, like people trying to be loyal to the man who mattered in the room.
Rogelio stepped forward, as if this were the natural next part of a speech.
He pulled papers from his suit jacket.
“The property is in Leonardo’s name,” Rogelio said, professional as a weather report. “Vehicles, accounts, savings, assets—also. We’ve reviewed everything carefully.”
Heat rushed into María’s face.
“How—?” she whispered, voice cracking. “I signed… we bought this together. I—”
Leo cut her off with gentle cruelty.
“You signed what I put in front of you,” he said. “Did you ever read anything, María? Did you ever ask a question? Or did you just sign where I pointed?”
It was the truth. She had trusted him. When he came home with “bank documents” or “notary forms,” she signed because he was the one who spoke money, and she was the one taught not to.
Rogelio added, almost casually, “There may be irregularities in certain signatures, but that can be addressed later.”
It was poison wrapped in legal language: fight us, and we’ll smear you.
María finally understood what she’d overheard at the window.
This wasn’t a plan from weeks ago.
This was a plan from years ago.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
