PART 2
Alejandro remembered I existed at nine that night.
By then I was already in an air ambulance headed to Houston.
I later learned from his assistant that once Mariana fell asleep, Alejandro finally asked, “How’s Sofia?”
The answer stunned him.
“She’s gone, sir.”
He rushed to my hospital room, but it was empty. The bed had been made up. The machines were gone. Nothing left but a glass of water and the ring he’d never deserved.
When he demanded to know where I’d gone, the doctor answered coldly, “Interesting that you suddenly remember you’re her husband.”
Three days later, my lawyer sent him the divorce papers.
The agreement included something his family never saw coming: repayment for everything I’d spent during our marriage. His mother’s medical bills. Family events. Gifts. Trips. Mariana’s expenses, charged to our joint accounts.
For three years I had paid to belong to a family that never once accepted me.
When the papers reached the Montes mansion, his mother was furious.
Mariana, dressed sweetly and wearing jewelry I’d helped pay for, said, “Sofia must be confused from the pain.”
But once Alejandro read the medical records, the truth finally hit him.
Mariana’s injuries were minor.
I’d needed emergency surgery.
Then Mariana made a mistake.
She posted from her hospital bed, painting me as cruel and jealous. People came after me at first.
So I posted one photo: my injured leg, my bandaged abdomen, and the words “emergency surgery” from my medical report.
No caption needed.
Within minutes, the comments turned.
Then came the messages.
“Were you really hurt that badly?”
“Did Alejandro really leave you alone?”
“Why did everyone say Mariana was the one in danger?”
I didn’t respond to any of it.
My lawyer kept everything on record.
Desperate to control the narrative, Doña Teresa arranged a public “family reconciliation” at Alejandro’s grandmother’s birthday gala. They wanted me to appear by video, apologize, and drop the divorce.
When my lawyer told me the plan, I said yes.
They wanted a stage.
So I gave them one.
The night before the gala, Alejandro called from an unknown number.
“Sofia, don’t do the video call.”
“Why?” I asked. “Don’t you want an apology anymore?”
“My mother took it too far,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “She only said what you spent three years teaching me.”
He whispered that he was sorry.
But sorry had come too late.
“I’m going to speak tomorrow,” I told him. “And this time, I won’t be the understanding wife.”
Then I hung up.
