PART 2

Alejandro remembered I existed at nine that night.

By then, I was already in an air ambulance on my way to Houston.

Later, I learned from his assistant that once Mariana fell asleep, Alejandro finally asked, “How is Sofia?”

The answer stunned him.

“She’s gone, sir.”

He rushed to my hospital room, but it was empty. The bed had been made. The machines were gone. Nothing remained except a glass of water and the ring he had failed to deserve.

When he demanded to know where I had gone, the doctor answered coldly, “Interesting that you remember you are her husband now.”

Three days later, my lawyer sent him the divorce papers.

The agreement included something his family never expected: repayment for the money I had spent during our marriage. Medical bills for his mother. Family events. Gifts. Trips. Mariana’s expenses charged to our accounts.

For three years, I had paid to belong to a family that never accepted me.

When the papers arrived at the Montes mansion, his mother was furious.

Mariana, dressed sweetly and wearing jewelry I had helped pay for, said, “Sofia must be confused from the pain.”

But when Alejandro read the medical records, he finally saw the truth.

Mariana had minor injuries.

I had needed emergency surgery.

Then Mariana made a mistake.

She posted online from her hospital bed, pretending I had been cruel and jealous. People attacked me at first.

So I posted one photo: my injured leg, my bandaged abdomen, and the words “emergency surgery” on the medical report.

No caption.

Within minutes, the comments against me disappeared.

Then came the messages.

“Were you really that badly hurt?”

“Did Alejandro leave you alone?”

“Why did everyone say Mariana was the one in danger?”

I did not answer.

My lawyer saved everything.

Desperate to control the story, Doña Teresa planned a public “family reconciliation” during Alejandro’s grandmother’s birthday gala. They wanted me to appear on video, apologize, and withdraw the divorce.

When my lawyer told me, 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 me to apologize anymore?”

“My mother went too far,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “She only said what you taught me for three years.”

He whispered that he was sorry.

But sorry had arrived 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.

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