One of his friends—Fernanda, who always looked at me with thinly veiled disdain—let out a small sigh. Not surprise. Satisfaction. As if she had been waiting for this moment for years.
And his mother… Ms. Patricia—a woman who never hid her belief that I was unworthy of her son—started laughing aloud.
A loud, cruel laugh, like she had just heard the most satisfying gossip of the year.
—“Finally!” she exclaimed, clapping. “I thought you’d be stuck in that cage forever!”
I didn’t move.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
I just watched.
At Alejandro.
At his mother.
And at those “friends” who now leaned forward, eager to witness my humiliation as if it were a spectacle.
They expected a scene.
They expected me to break.
They expected him to fall to his knees, begging me to stay.
But I knew: today was not my day to fall. It was his day.
Because two days earlier, I had received a message from my father.
My father had died five years ago—quietly, in a private hospital, after a long illness. I had been by his side until the very end. He held my hand and whispered:
—“You’re going to make it through, daughter. You are stronger than you think.”
I cried then. Not out of fear of death, but because I understood I had been left alone.
My mother had died when I was a child. I had no close relatives left. Only my father. And his will.
He left me everything.
The house on the outskirts of the city, the apartment in Polanco, investments, bank accounts in Mexican pesos… and a company—a small but profitable construction business he had built from scratch.
I didn’t want to go into business. But my father had said:
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