The air in La Golden Azucena, the most obnoxiously perfect lounge in Polanco, smells like expensive perfume and fresh betrayal. You can taste it in the ice clinking inside glasses, in the flash of cameras, in the way men in tailored jackets laugh like nothing in the world has consequences. Tonight is supposed to be your victory lap, the “historic milestone” celebration for Téllez Logistics, now splashed across giant screens with a nine-figure valuation and fireworks on a loop. You stand at the entrance to the VIP section and feel your emerald dress tighten around your ribs like a warning. Five years of building the company’s spine, smoothing regulatory cracks, calming investors, and putting out operational fires, and this is what they’ve reserved for you. Not a toast, not gratitude, not even a private thank you. Just a public execution dressed in velvet.

Sergio Téllez doesn’t approach you with a ring or even a hint of shame. He arrives with an audience, which is the only thing he’s ever truly married. At his side, attached like a designer accessory, is Lía Beltrán, twenty-two and glowing with the kind of internet fame that feeds on other people’s humiliation. She laughs too loudly whenever a camera tilts her direction, as if she’s auditioning for a world where empathy is optional. On her finger is a diamond that throws tiny knives of light, and you recognize it immediately. You helped Sergio pick that exact stone months ago, back when he said it was for his mother’s anniversary and you believed him. Your stomach turns, but your face stays still because you refuse to be entertainment. Sergio swirls his whiskey without lifting his voice, the way men do when they think volume is beneath them.

“You’re making a scene, Ana,” he says, and his tone is worse than anger because it’s pity. You inhale slowly, feeling your hands tremble as you force them to relax at your sides. “I’m telling the truth,” you answer, and your voice comes out calm enough to scare even you. “And the truth isn’t a scene.” Sergio smiles like he’s already won because in his mind you’re a line item he can delete. He looks you up and down with the lazy cruelty of someone who’s never had to earn what he owns. “You’re tired, serious, heavy,” he says, each word placed like a stone in your pockets.

He gestures around at the screens and the glittering room like he’s presenting evidence to a jury. “Téllez Logistics is the future, and I need someone who reflects that,” he continues, as if you’re a marketing problem. Lía presses into his arm and laughs again, and the sound lands on your skin like spilled champagne turning sticky. “She’s fresh,” Sergio says, nodding toward her like she’s a new feature update. Then he turns back to you, shrugging with theatrical sadness. “You were hard work, Ana, and hard work gets replaced.” People around them laugh nervously, investors and “friends” you once fed numbers and dinners to, their loyalty snapping to money the way a dog snaps to a whistle. You scan faces and realize they’re all watching the same thing: whether you’ll break. Sergio’s confidence is a spotlight, and he expects you to stand in it and melt.

Gina Salgado appears beside him like a ghost wearing your old trust. She was your college friend, the one who shared library tables, stress snacks, and oaths about sisterhood that felt sacred at twenty. For a stupid second, hope flickers in you, the kind that survives even when it should be dead. You think Gina will stop this, will say something sharp enough to cut the cruelty in half. Instead, she takes Sergio’s empty glass and replaces it with a full one, like she’s a trained attendant. “He’s right, Ana,” she says, eyes cold and flat, “you’ve been dragging down the brand aesthetic for months.” The words hit harder than Sergio’s dismissal because betrayal from a friend doesn’t come with warning labels. In an instant you understand why Gina kept pushing you to miss board meetings, why she insisted you “rest,” why your calendar kept getting sabotaged. It wasn’t care, it was strategy.

Sergio slides a thick envelope onto the polished table like he’s dropping a tip after a meal. “Your severance,” he says, and the contempt in his generosity makes your throat burn. “Six months salary, take it as charity, it’s the only valuable thing you have left.” Silence tightens around the VIP circle, and you feel the room lean forward like it wants to watch a car crash in slow motion. Your fingers touch the envelope and you feel its weight, not in paper, but in everything you’ve been swallowing for years. You imagine taking it, walking away quietly, letting them rewrite your story as a woman who got paid to disappear. Something inside you refuses, sharp as broken glass. You pull the envelope toward you, and in one clean motion you tear it. The rip is louder than the music, and you tear again, and again, letting the pieces fall into Sergio’s whiskey like poisonous confetti.

“I don’t need your money, Sergio,” you say, voice low and cold enough to fog glass. “I don’t need your pity either.” The room holds its breath because they didn’t expect you to refuse the only weapon they thought you had. You straighten your shoulders and let your gaze lock on his like a verdict. “You’re the face,” you tell him, “I was the spine, and by the way, your posture has always been terrible.” Lía’s smile flickers, Gina’s mouth tightens, and Sergio’s eyes flash because you just did the one thing he can’t stand. You treated him like he was ordinary. You turn and walk out toward the terrace without looking back, heels tapping a survival rhythm over marble. The first tear that escapes outside isn’t soft sadness, it’s hot rage that finally found air.

“The terrace is closed for private events,” a deep voice says from the shadow of a decorative column. You freeze, wiping your face fast, as if tears are something you can delete like a spreadsheet error. A man steps into the dim light, tall and still, wearing a charcoal suit that looks like it was tailored for control. His hair is dark with a few silver streaks at the temples, and his eyes don’t just look, they disassemble. “I’m Alejandro Vargas,” he says, and the name lands with the weight of headlines. Vargas Global, the conglomerate that eats companies for breakfast and calls it synergy. You swallow hard, suddenly aware you’re standing in a place owned by people who can change the weather inside a room. “I didn’t know,” you start, and he cuts you off with calm that’s sharper than rudeness.

“I own the building,” Alejandro says, like the world should rearrange itself around that fact. He flicks an expensive lighter open and closed, not even smoking, just turning power into a small sound. “I saw the show,” he adds, “and the part where you shredded the check was effective.” A bitter laugh slips out of you because the absurdity is too much to hold. “According to him, I’m an asset that depreciated,” you say, and the words taste like acid. “Thirty-two years old, apparently that’s vintage.” Alejandro clicks the lighter shut and studies you like you’re a set of numbers with hidden meaning. “Sergio Téllez is a child playing mogul,” he says, and his disdain sounds factual, not emotional.

You blink because you don’t know how he could possibly know enough to say that. Alejandro doesn’t ask permission to prove it. “Efficiency dropped 4.2% in six months,” he says, as if he’s reading the time off a watch. “Right when he started optimizing his personal life with Miss Beltrán.” Your chest tightens because the drop matches what you saw and what you warned about and what Sergio ignored while polishing his ego. Alejandro’s gaze sharpens, finally focusing on you instead of the party behind the glass. “You’re Ana Larios,” he says, not as a question, but as a conclusion. “Top of your class at UNAM, supply chain automation, the ghost code that made him look like a visionary.” You feel your throat close because nobody in that lounge ever said your name like it mattered. “I just wanted the company to work,” you manage, and Alejandro’s expression doesn’t soften.

“And that’s why you’re unemployed now,” he says, brutally honest like a blade that doesn’t apologize for being sharp. He pulls a black card from his pocket with no logo, just a name and a number etched in silver. “I don’t hire out of charity,” Alejandro says, holding it out. “But my North America transport division is a disaster, and my sister Victoria fires analysts faster than I can replace them.” The card feels heavier than the severance you destroyed, heavier than the whole night. Alejandro adds one last line like a warning label you can’t peel off. “If you survive her interview, you have a job, and if you cry like you did a minute ago, don’t call.” Then he turns and disappears back into the building like he never needed to explain himself to gravity.

Inside, Sergio is still toasting “the future” like he personally invented it. You don’t go back in, because you’re done playing in someone else’s arena. You stand with the card in your hand and feel the night air cool your skin as something inside you reorganizes. In the next twenty-four hours, Sergio blocks your server access, Gina blocks your number, and Lía posts a video mocking “bitter exes,” which goes viral like cruelty always does. You don’t watch it, because you’re too busy preparing for war. You spend three days drilling into Vargas Global’s public reports, routes, bottlenecks, contract structures, and risk exposures. You don’t study out of desperation, you study out of hunger, the clean kind that turns humiliation into fuel. When you walk into the glass tower on Reforma for the interview, you don’t enter like a discarded woman. You enter like a sharpened tool.

Victoria Vargas doesn’t interview you, she interrogates you. She sits behind a pristine desk, filing her nails without looking up, as if eye contact is something she only gives to equals. “My brother says you’re brilliant,” she says, voice bored, “I think you’re carrying Sergio Téllez’s trash on your shoes.” You keep your face calm even as your pulse hammers, because you recognize this test. “Why would I let you touch my data?” Victoria asks, finally lifting her gaze like she’s granting an audience. You slide a folder across the desk, your hands steady now. “Because your Asia distribution center is hemorrhaging money,” you say, and her fingers pause mid-file. “You’re using a third-party broker in Singapore inflating fuel surcharges by fifteen percent,” you add, “and they hid it in a subaccount.”

Victoria’s stillness is the first crack in her armor. She reads fast, eyes narrowing, posture changing as the math speaks louder than ego. “How did you find this in three days?” she demands, and you don’t bother softening the truth. “Because I know where thieves hide,” you tell her. “I’ve watched them smile in meetings.” Victoria calls in her uncle, Don Genaro Vargas, a family attorney with a smile that looks like it’s sharpened on lawsuits. He studies you like a bet he wants to place. “Welcome aboard, Miss Larios,” Don Genaro says, almost amused. “Don’t let Victoria scare you, she bites, but she’s vaccinated.” You are hired as a senior analyst, a smaller title than what you built at Téllez, but you feel the real promotion in your bones. This place doesn’t want your patience, it wants your precision.

You work like someone turned a motor on inside your chest. You arrive first, you leave last, and your spreadsheets start fixing problems that whole departments couldn’t name. People notice, because competence is loud in a building full of politics. Two months in, while you’re reviewing acquisition documents, you see a familiar name and your heart slams against your ribs. Téllez Logistics is on the list, polished and packaged for sale like a luxury product. The numbers look perfect, which is exactly why you don’t trust them. You dig deeper into due diligence, pulling raw data, running your old algorithms, comparing reported revenue to actual deposits. The gap appears like a crack in ice, then spreads fast once you know where to press. Sergio is recognizing revenue before delivery, counting initiated shipments as paid money, dressing fraud in a tailored suit. The company isn’t a business, it’s a shell wearing makeup.

“You look like you’ve seen a corpse,” a voice says behind you. You turn and find Alejandro Vargas in the doorway, calm as if midnight meetings are just another hobby. The office is nearly empty, the city lights outside the windows blinking like distant warnings. “The acquisition is a trap,” you say immediately, because you’ve learned honesty is the only efficient language. “If Vargas buys Téllez, Vargas buys a carcass, and Sergio walks away with the money.” Alejandro steps closer and reads your screen with focus that doesn’t waste motion. “Can you prove it?” he asks, and you nod even as dread curls in your gut. “Yes,” you say, “but I need server-level data I no longer have.” Alejandro doesn’t hesitate, and that lack of hesitation is its own kind of power. “Tomorrow you come with me to the final meeting,” he says, like it’s already decided.

You swallow because the thought of walking back into Sergio’s world feels like stepping into a cage you barely escaped. “I can’t,” you admit, and the shame of it makes your teeth clench. “They’ll call me the bitter ex, they’ll say I’m biased.” Alejandro takes one step closer, and his voice drops into something that feels like a quiet command. “They can say whatever they want,” he says. “You’re either an analyst, Ana, or you’re a victim, choose.” The word victim burns because Sergio tried to hand it to you like a new identity. You feel fear, but underneath the fear is the hard core of your own competence, unbreakable and waiting. “I’m an analyst,” you say, and you hear your future click into place. Alejandro’s mouth lifts in the smallest smile, almost approving. “Then wear something that looks like armor,” he says. “We’re going to war.”

In the boardroom the next day, Sergio is surrounded by lawyers, smug confidence, and perfume pretending to be innocence. Gina sits at his side with her pen poised, and Lía is there too, smiling brightly like decor. They’re laughing, already treating the deal like a victory lap. Then the door opens and Alejandro Vargas walks in, and the room inhales as if money itself just entered. The laughter dies instantly because fear respects a bigger predator. Alejandro takes a seat with calm authority and glances around as if the boardroom belongs to him by natural law. “I want my lead analyst to explain a discrepancy,” he says, voice even, and he looks directly at you. You step inside wearing a deep wine suit, hair pulled back tight, tablet in your hand like a weapon you know how to use. Sergio’s face drains of color, Gina’s pen slips, and Lía’s mouth falls open in a stunned, ridiculous circle.

“What is this?” Sergio stammers, trying to recover with arrogance. “She’s my ex, we fired her for incompetence.” Alejandro lifts an eyebrow like he’s amused by the attempt. “Interesting,” he says, “HR calls her a prodigy.” Gina shoots to her feet, anger flashing like a flare. “She’s biased,” Gina snaps, “she’s here for revenge.” Alejandro doesn’t even raise his voice, which somehow makes it worse. “Sit down, Ms. Salgado,” he says. “Or security will help you.” Your pulse steadies as you connect the tablet, and the boardroom screen fills with your graph: reported revenue versus actual deposits. The red line collapses like a plane with no engine, and the silence becomes heavy enough to crush pride.

“This isn’t aggressive accounting,” you say, voice calm and merciless. “This is a lie.” You walk them through early revenue recognition, phantom clients, debt dressed up as growth, and the hidden pattern that screams intent. Then you pivot, because you didn’t come unarmed. “Half your ‘major clients’ are shell companies,” you say, and you swipe to the registry links. “They trace back to a mailbox tied to Salgado Consulting.” Gina goes pale so fast you can see the blood drain from her face. Sergio slams his hand on the table and shouts that you fabricated everything, but his voice has lost its magic. You meet his eyes, steady as stone. “I wrote the system,” you tell him, “I know where you hid the bodies, and they’re made of numbers.” Alejandro leans back in his chair like he’s watching a verdict get delivered. “Fraud is a strong word, Sergio,” he says softly, “but federal prison is stronger.”

The deal dies in that room, and you can feel it like a cord snapping. Lawyers whisper, phones light up, and Sergio’s confidence evaporates into panic. When you step into the hallway afterward, your knees threaten to fold because adrenaline always collects its payment. Alejandro catches you with one firm hand, steadying you like gravity. “Breathe,” he says, softer now, and you obey because you’ve finally run out of reasons to resist help. “I did it,” you whisper, half disbelief, half triumph. “You did,” he answers, and there’s something in his eyes that isn’t just evaluation anymore. Within days, Sergio’s “visionary” image collapses into headlines about investigations, investor lawsuits, and internal audits. Gina disappears from social media, Lía posts tearful half-apologies, and none of it tastes as sweet as you expected. Your promotion arrives quietly, office on a high floor, new title etched on glass. For the first time in years, your mind goes silent at night.

The past, however, doesn’t quit just because you earned a clean win. One Wednesday, Victoria Vargas meets you at the security checkpoint with internal compliance behind her. “We have a leak,” she says, expression sharp, “confidential files were sent to Víctor Nájera’s server last night from your terminal.” The floor feels like it shifts under you, as if reality just lost traction. You stare at her, trying to speak, trying to breathe, trying not to let panic show on your face. “It wasn’t me,” you say, and you hate how defense always sounds like weakness even when it’s true. Protocol moves fast in corporations that fear scandal more than injustice. Your badge is suspended, your access revoked, and you are escorted out like a criminal while people pretend not to stare. Outside, rain begins to fall as if the city is applauding irony. Across the street, a black car idles, and the window slides down. Gina sits inside wearing oversized sunglasses, and she gives you a small, wicked wink before the car glides away.

You don’t cry this time, because you finally understand the pattern. You run. In a small café with old Wi-Fi and sticky tables, you buy a cheap laptop with cash like someone planning an escape. You track packet headers, routing paths, timestamps, and authentication logs with the obsessive focus of a woman who refuses to be framed twice. The truth appears slowly, then all at once: the files didn’t originate from your terminal, they were redirected through it from outside. Someone used an old credential access path, something you once had and forgot existed. A door you didn’t know was still unlocked. Your stomach twists as the name that fits the shape of the crime rises in your mind. Sergio and Gina, and now Víctor Nájera, a man who buys secrets the way other men buy coffee. You save the evidence, fingers moving fast, and then your screen abruptly goes black. Green text appears like a threat written by a machine. “Nice try, Ana,” it says, “the network is ours now.”

You slam the laptop shut as if you can physically stop the threat from spreading. You need Alejandro, but you don’t trust phones anymore, not with people like this. You step back into the rain and take a taxi to Vargas Global, soaking through your coat, hair slicked to your face, dignity clutched in your fists. Security tries to block you at the lobby because protocol loves rules more than truth. “Your access is suspended,” the guard says, and you feel your lungs tighten. Then a voice cuts through the lobby like thunder. “Let her go,” Alejandro Vargas says from the stairs, and the guard steps aside instantly. Alejandro comes down fast, all controlled fury, and before you can assemble pride, he pulls you into his arms right there where everyone can see. The warmth of it cracks something in you, and the words spill out before you can cage them. “They set me up,” you choke, “it was an old access, Sergio, Gina, Nájera.”

“I know,” Alejandro says, and his certainty hits you like a lifeline. You pull back just enough to stare at him, stunned by how fast he chose a side. “You believe me that easily?” you whisper, because your life trained you to expect suspicion first. Alejandro’s eyes hold yours without blinking. “It’s not easy,” he says, “it’s knowledge, I know who you are.” Then he drops the line that makes your knees go weak for a different reason. “At three in the morning you were asleep on my shoulder,” he adds, and you realize he’s been watching you closer than you noticed. You don’t have time to unpack that tenderness, because war doesn’t pause for feelings. Alejandro calls in legal, cybersecurity, and Don Genaro, and the building turns into a machine aimed at truth.

With resources and brains aligned, you counterattack. You pull archived emails, phone records, and access logs, and you stitch the timeline together like a surgeon closing a wound. Víctor Nájera’s name shows up too often, always near money, always near the “anonymous” decisions that weren’t anonymous at all. Sergio’s desperation is visible in the sloppiness, like a man who thought he could keep winning with the same cheap tricks. You and Alejandro set a trap, letting Nájera believe his frame job worked while you trace the exact route of his intrusion. Victoria Vargas, furious at being played, becomes your unexpected ally, and her anger is laser-precise. Don Genaro drafts motions like weapons, each clause designed to collapse their legal cover. You feel exhaustion, but it’s the clean kind that comes from fighting for something real. When you finally have enough evidence, Alejandro asks one question that matters. “Do you want to destroy them quietly,” he says, “or publicly?” You think of Lía’s viral mockery, Gina’s wink, Sergio’s smug voice, and you choose what they deserve.

Sergio schedules a press conference to launch a last-ditch “crypto logistics” project, trying to outrun his own scandals with a new shiny lie. Cameras gather, influencers hover, and Sergio stands in front of a huge screen like a man auditioning for redemption. You watch from a secure room, mic clipped to your blouse, heart pounding but steady. Alejandro stands behind you like a wall, and you can feel his presence even when you don’t look. When Sergio starts talking about innovation, transparency, and the future, you almost laugh at the audacity. Then the screen behind him glitches, and your face appears instead, calm and well-lit, the truth arriving like an uninvited guest. Sergio’s smile freezes mid-performance as the room erupts into confused noise. “You can’t turn off the truth, Sergio,” you say into the microphone, voice clear enough to slice through the chaos. You display the charts, the deposits, the fake clients, the fraud wrapped in buzzwords.

Then you play the audio. Gina’s voice fills the broadcast, crisp and undeniable: “Put the file on Ana’s computer,” she says, “we take her down and wipe the trail.” The crowd gasps, reporters surge forward, and Sergio’s face collapses into something small and frightened. A side door opens, and federal agents walk in like a scene fate rehearsed for months. Phones lift, headlines write themselves, and Sergio’s dream of controlling the narrative dies on camera. You don’t gloat, because gloating would mean they still matter. You just breathe, letting your body realize the chase is over. Alejandro turns your shoulders gently so you’re facing him, not the monitors. “It’s done,” he says, and you finally believe him. Outside, the city keeps moving, unaware that a lie just got buried.

That night, when it finally feels like peace might be possible, Don Genaro sends a message that turns your blood cold again. “There’s a man in the lobby,” his text reads, “he says he’s your husband.” You stare at your phone like it’s speaking a language you refuse to learn. “I don’t have a husband,” you say out loud, and Alejandro’s brow furrows as he reads over your shoulder. Don Genaro adds another line, more specific, more dangerous. “He says his name is Uriel Téllez,” the message continues, “and he claims there’s a marriage certificate from Las Vegas, five years ago.” Your stomach flips because Sergio never played only one game at a time. Alejandro’s expression hardens, protective and irritated all at once. “Bring him up,” he tells security, voice calm, and you hate how quickly the past tries to crawl back into your life like a cockroach.

Uriel Téllez looks like Sergio’s shadow after a bar fight. He wears a leather jacket, his eyes too alert, his posture wired like someone who doesn’t sleep peacefully. He drops a document onto the marble table, and the paper looks official enough to make your skin itch. “Relax,” Uriel says, holding up his hands, “I’m not here for marital rights.” Alejandro’s gaze could cut steel, but Uriel doesn’t flinch, which tells you he’s used to danger. “I’m here because Sergio forged it,” Uriel continues, “to tie you to a dirty credit line, and the payment comes due soon.” You feel nausea rise, imagining collectors who don’t negotiate politely. Alejandro’s first instinct is exactly what you expect from a man with resources. “I’ll pay it,” he says, as if money is a broom for every mess. You shake your head hard enough to feel your earrings tug. “No,” you say, and the word comes out like law.

Alejandro looks at you with concern, but you don’t soften. “If you pay, Sergio still wins,” you tell him, voice steady with a new kind of clarity. “He still moves my life with his filth, and I’m done letting him touch my future.” Uriel watches you like he’s surprised, like he expected a richer man to take over and a woman to step back. You turn to Uriel and ask the question that matters. “Do you have the shares Sergio hid?” you say, because you know greed always leaves breadcrumbs. Uriel’s mouth lifts into a half-smile that suggests he learned survival in the same house you escaped. “Let’s say I know how to open safes,” he answers, and you nod as if you just confirmed a tool exists. “Give them to me,” you say, and the room goes silent because you sound like a woman issuing orders in a world that hates that. “I’m going to liquidate Téllez Logistics,” you continue, “sell what’s clean, destroy what’s rotten, pay the debt, and erase his monument.” Alejandro’s eyes soften for a second, almost proud. “That’s my Ana,” he murmurs, and the possessive tenderness in it doesn’t feel like a cage.

The courtroom battle over liquidation is ugly, because men like Víctor Nájera don’t like losing a lever. Nájera tries to block the process with an injunction, arguing about shareholder value while quietly trying to salvage whatever corruption still benefits him. You walk into court wearing a simple white dress and carrying a binder so heavy it could break bones. The judge looks tired, which is good, because tired judges hate games. “I’m not acting out of emotion,” you say, voice calm, “I’m acting out of cleanup.” Nájera’s lawyers smirk like they expect you to crack under cross-examination. Then you drop the evidence: emails where Nájera discusses using insider information to sabotage Vargas Global and frame you as collateral damage. The courtroom shifts as murmurs ripple through the benches like a wave. Nájera’s face tightens, his mask slipping, and the judge’s expression hardens into something close to disgust. In minutes, the injunction weakens, and Nájera’s credibility burns right there under fluorescent lights. For once, money doesn’t win by default.

After court, the air feels lighter, as if your lungs finally have permission to fill. You step outside and laugh once, a shaky sound that turns into something real when Alejandro takes your hand. “And now what?” you ask, half laughing, half trembling, because you’ve been running on adrenaline for so long you forgot what stillness feels like. Alejandro squeezes your fingers like he’s anchoring you to the present. “Now you keep your life,” he says, and his voice is softer than the man you met on the terrace. He watches your face, then adds a line that makes your heart trip. “And we take a trip,” he says, like he’s offering something normal, something human. You tilt your head, suspicious because good things used to come with traps. “Where?” you ask anyway. Alejandro’s smile is small but unmistakably warm. “Las Vegas,” he answers, “to erase a lie and start a truth.”

Six months later, the wedding is nothing like the one social media would demand. There are no influencers, no staged crying, no diamonds screaming for attention, no brand deals disguised as romance. There’s just salt air, a small ceremony near the ocean, and a circle of people who actually earned their seats. Victoria Vargas shows up in a sharp suit and declares herself the “godmother” because “dresses get in the way,” and you laugh because she’s unbearable in a way that’s almost comforting now. Uriel is there too, lighter than you’ve ever seen him, as if your war accidentally freed him from his own. Don Genaro watches everything like a satisfied chess player, pretending he’s not emotional while failing. Alejandro stands beside you, steady as a lighthouse, and when he slides the ring onto your finger, it isn’t a trophy. The band is platinum, simple, and the tiny diamonds form binary code etched in a subtle line. “What does it say?” you whisper, and your voice shakes because happiness still feels like a new language. Alejandro leans close and answers quietly. “EQUALS,” he says.

A week later, you get a notification that Lía Beltrán posted a crying video about stress and pressure and being “misunderstood.” The internet, which once fed her cruelty like candy, has already moved on to newer drama. You stare at the headline for one second, then close the app without commenting, without laughing, without giving her your energy. Alejandro looks up from a report, reading your face the way he reads contracts. “You okay?” he asks, and the question isn’t corporate, it’s personal. You rest your head on his shoulder and feel the ocean breeze lift the curtains like a soft exhale. “Perfect,” you answer, and you mean it in a way that surprises you. “I just closed the last tab,” you add, because your past finally feels like a browser window you don’t need open anymore. Outside, the world keeps spinning, loud and messy and unfair, but it no longer owns you. You chose yourself, and that choice built a life nobody can terminate with a smirk.

THE END