That morning, Madrid seemed darker than usual—yet my mood was unexpectedly light. My name is Sofia, and I was carefully straightening my husband Ricardo’s tie as he stood confidently before the oversized mirror in our master bedroom. Our lavish home in La Moraleja had silently witnessed five years of what I believed was happiness. Or at least… what I thought was happiness—until that day.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to prepare something for the drive?” I asked gently, smoothing his chest.
“Valencia is quite far.”
Ricardo smiled—the same smile that always eased my doubts. He leaned down and placed a lingering kiss on my forehead.
“No, my love. I’m pressed for time. The client in Valencia needs an urgent meeting tonight. This project is important for my portfolio. I want to prove to your father that I can succeed without hiding behind your family name.”
I nodded, feeling proud of him. Ricardo was a “hard-working” husband… even though the reality was that the capital for his business, the Mitsubishi Montero he drove, and the tailored suits he wore all came from me—from dividends of the company I inherited and now managed. Still, I never mentioned it. In a marriage, what’s mine is his too… right?
“Be careful,” I said. “Text me when you reach the hotel.”
He agreed, picked up his keys, and walked out. I watched him disappear through the carved oak door—and felt a faint, unsettling pull in my chest. A warning I chose to ignore. Maybe it was just the guilty comfort of having the house to myself for a few days.
That afternoon, after several office meetings, my thoughts turned to Laura—my closest friend since college. She had texted the night before, saying she’d been hospitalized in Segovia with acute typhoid fever. Laura lived alone in that unfamiliar city. I’d always tried to support her. The small house she lived in was one of my properties, and I let her stay there rent-free out of kindness.
“Poor Laura,” I murmured. “She must feel so alone.”
I checked the time—two o’clock. My schedule suddenly cleared, and an idea struck me: why not visit her? Segovia was only a couple of hours away if traffic cooperated. I could surprise her with her favorite cocido and a basket of fresh fruit.
I called my driver, José—then remembered he’d called in sick. So I took my red Mercedes and drove myself, imagining Laura’s face lighting up when she saw me. I even planned to call Ricardo later and tell him how thoughtful his wife had been. I could already hear his praise.
By five, I pulled into the parking lot of an exclusive private hospital in Segovia. Laura had said she was in VIP room 305.
VIP.
That detail made me pause. Laura didn’t work. How was she affording a suite like that? But optimism quickly smothered my doubt. Maybe she had savings. And if not—it was fine. I would cover it.
Fruit basket in hand, I walked through antiseptic-scented corridors that still felt polished and luxurious. My footsteps echoed against the marble floors. My heart wasn’t anxious—it was expectant.
The elevator chimed on the third floor. I found room 305 at the end of a quiet hallway, slightly secluded. As I approached, I noticed the door wasn’t fully closed—just barely ajar.
I raised my hand to knock… then froze.
Laughter drifted out.
And then a man’s voice—warm, playful, devastatingly familiar—made my blood run cold.
“Open your mouth, darling. Here comes the little airplane…”
My stomach dropped. That voice had kissed my forehead that morning. That voice had promised Valencia.
No. It couldn’t be.
Trembling, I stepped closer to the narrow opening and held my breath as I looked inside.
What I saw struck like a hammer.
Laura was sitting upright on the bed—healthy, radiant, not pale at all. She wore satin pajamas, not a hospital gown. And seated beside her, gently feeding her apple slices with tender care, was Ricardo.
My husband.
His expression was soft—loving in the same way it had been when we were newlyweds.
“My wife is so spoiled,” Ricardo murmured, wiping the corner of Laura’s mouth with his thumb.
My wife.
The hallway seemed to spin. I pressed myself against the wall to keep my legs from giving out.
Then Laura’s voice—sweet, needy, dangerously intimate—floated out like venom.
“When are you going to tell Sofia? I’m tired of hiding. And now I’m only a few weeks pregnant. Our child needs to be acknowledged.”
Pregnant.
Our child.
It felt as if lightning tore straight through my chest.
Ricardo set the plate aside and took Laura’s hands, kissing her knuckles as though she were nobility.
“Be patient. If I divorce Sofia now, I lose everything. She’s clever—everything is in her name. The car, the watch, the project capital… it’s all her money.” He gave a quiet chuckle, almost appreciative of my value. “But don’t worry. We’ve been secretly married for two years.”
Laura pouted. “So you’ll keep being her parasite? You said you were proud.”
Ricardo laughed—a relaxed, self-assured sound.
“Exactly because I’m proud. I need more capital first. I’ve been siphoning money from her company into my account—cost overruns, fake projects. Just wait. Once we’ve saved enough for our own place and business, I’ll dump her. I’m tired of pretending to be kind. She’s controlling. You’re better… you’re submissive.”
Laura giggled.
“Is the Segovia house safe? Sofia won’t claim it?”
“It’s safe,” he replied. “The deed isn’t in my name yet, but Sofia’s naïve. She thinks the house is empty. She doesn’t know the ‘poor friend’ she’s helping is the queen of her husband’s heart.”
They laughed together—light, careless, vicious.
My fingers tightened around the fruit basket until the handle cut into my skin. I wanted to burst through the door. I wanted to pull her hair, slap him until his mouth forgot how to lie.
But a voice—an old piece of advice I once heard—cut cleanly through my fury:
If an enemy attacks, don’t fight with emotion. Strike when they don’t expect it. Destroy the foundation, then let the building collapse.
My trembling hand slid into my pocket. I took out my new phone, silenced it, and started recording. Carefully, I aimed the lens through the narrow opening.
I recorded everything.
Ricardo kissing Laura’s belly. Their “secret marriage.” Their admission of stealing from my company. Their laughter at my generosity. Every detail—sharp and unforgiving in 4K.
Five minutes that felt like five lifetimes.
Then I stepped back and walked away—slowly, forcing down the sobs clawing at my throat. In an empty waiting room, I finally sat, staring at the saved video on my screen.
Tears fell—briefly.
I wiped them away with the heel of my hand.
Crying wasn’t for trash.
“So this whole time…” I whispered, my voice shaking as love curdled into something colder. “I’ve been sleeping with a snake.”
Laura—the friend I’d treated like a sister—was a smiling leech. I remembered her staged tears when she said she had no money for food, and how I’d handed her an extra credit card. I remembered Ricardo’s “overtime”—probably spent in the house I owned, with the woman I sheltered.
Pain froze into steel.
I opened my banking app. I had full access to everything—including the trading account Ricardo “managed,” since I was the true principal owner. My fingers moved quickly.
Check balance.
€30,000 that should have been project funds.
Check transactions.
Boutique transfers. Jewelry. A gynecology clinic in Segovia.
“Enjoy your laughter,” I hissed. “While you still can.”
I wasn’t going to confront them there. That would be too easy—tears, excuses, cheap drama.
No.
I wanted suffering that equaled the betrayal.
I stood, straightened my jacket, and looked down the hallway toward room 305 as if locking onto a target.
“Enjoy your honeymoon in the hospital,” I murmured. “Because tomorrow… your hell begins.”
In my car, before even starting the engine, I called Héctor—my trusted head of IT and security.
“Hello, Héctor,” I said calmly, my voice no longer sounding like my own.
“Mrs. de la Vega? Is everything alright?”
“I need your help tonight. Urgent. Confidential.”
“Always, ma’am.”
“First: block Ricardo’s platinum card. Second: freeze the trading account he manages—call it a sudden internal audit. Third: alert the legal team to prepare asset recovery.”
There was a pause—Héctor was smart enough not to ask questions.
“Understood. When do we execute?”
“Now. Immediately. I want the alert to hit the moment he tries to pay for anything.”
“I’ll proceed.”
“One more thing,” I added. “Find the best locksmith you can. And hire two strong security men. Tomorrow morning, we’re visiting the house in Segovia.”
“At your service, ma’am.”
I ended the call, started the car, and caught my reflection in the rearview mirror.
The woman who cried in that hallway no longer existed.
What remained was Sofia—the CEO—who had finally learned the price of mercy.
My phone buzzed. A WhatsApp message from Ricardo:
“My love, I’ve arrived in Valencia. I’m exhausted. Going to sleep. Kisses. I love you.”
I laughed—quiet, sharp, without humor.
Then I typed my reply with perfect composure.
“Okay, honey. Sleep well. Dream sweet dreams—because tomorrow you may wake up to a surprising reality. I love you too.”
Send.
As the screen went dark, a crooked smile formed on my lips.
The game had officially begun.
