For a moment after he left, I stood very still. A small, uneasy feeling tugged at my chest, but I ignored it the way women in love ignore the first warning signs.
The house grew quiet after his departure, the kind of elegant silence money buys. By noon, I was at the office, buried in meetings and financial reports, forcing my mind toward numbers instead of emotions.
Then I thought of Laura, my best friend since college. The night before, she had texted me from Segovia saying she had been admitted to a private hospital with acute typhoid fever.
Poor Laura, alone again, unlucky again, always one step away from disaster. When life bruised her, I was the one who caught her, and I had loved her like a sister for years.
The little house in Segovia where she lived belonged to me. I let her stay there rent-free because I believed compassion should be given generously, especially to someone you trusted with your heart.
I checked my schedule and saw a rare open afternoon. The idea came so naturally that it felt almost sweet: I would drive to Segovia, bring her fruit and her favorite stew, and surprise her.
I imagined her grateful smile and the way her eyes would soften when she saw me. I even imagined calling Ricardo later to tell him, already hearing him praise me for being thoughtful and kind.
My driver had called in sick, so I took my red Mercedes myself. I stopped to buy a basket of fruit, a thermos of homemade stew, and pale lilies because Laura once told me flowers made hospital rooms feel less cruel.
The drive from Madrid to Segovia was quiet, and the road felt strangely peaceful beneath the dim sky. By the time I reached the hospital a little after five, the whole place looked more like a luxury hotel than a place where people went to suffer.
Laura had texted me her room number: VIP Suite 305. That detail gave me pause because Laura had no job, no visible savings, and often cried to me about ordinary bills.
For a second, suspicion rose like a bubble in deep water. Then I pushed it down and told myself that if she could not pay, I would.
Inside, everything gleamed under white lights. Marble floors reflected the ceiling, the air smelled of antiseptic and expensive flowers, and the silence was so polished it made my footsteps sound intrusive.
I took the elevator to the third floor and walked toward the end of a secluded hallway. Suite 305 was there, exactly where Laura said it would be, and the door was slightly ajar.
I lifted my hand to knock, but before I touched the wood, I heard a laugh from inside. Soft, feminine, familiar.
Then came a man’s voice, warm and playful in a way that made every drop of blood in my body turn to ice. “Open your mouth, darling. Here comes the little airplane.”
No, I thought at once, and yet my body knew before my mind did. I had heard that voice whisper against my skin, laugh across dinner tables, and promise me Valencia only hours earlier.
I moved to the narrow gap in the door and looked inside. In that instant, the life I thought I had shattered without making a sound.
Laura was sitting up in bed, radiant and healthy, wearing satin pajamas instead of a hospital gown. There was no fever in her face, no weakness in her posture, only the glow of a woman being adored.
Beside her sat Ricardo. My husband was feeding her slices of apple from a plate, smiling with a tenderness that once belonged to me.
Then he wiped the corner of her lips with his thumb and said softly, “My spoiled wife.” My wife. The words struck me so hard that the hallway seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
I grabbed the wall before my knees gave out. It felt as though some invisible hand had reached into my chest and crushed my heart in one merciless squeeze.
Laura laughed and leaned toward him as if she had every right. “When are you going to tell Sofia?” she asked. “I’m tired of hiding, and I’m pregnant, Ricardo.”
Pregnant. That word hit even harder than the sight of them together, because betrayal may split the heart, but another woman’s child drives the blade all the way through.
Ricardo set down the plate and took both her hands, kissing her fingers as if she were precious. “Be patient,” he said. “If I divorce Sofia now, I lose everything, because the company, the money, the car, and the accounts are all in her name.”
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