His name. Spoken in a voice he knew better than his own.
He turned slowly, his stomach sinking into the floor.
About ten paces away, standing in the lobby light, was his wife.
Jimena wore a navy blue pantsuit he’d never seen her in before, elegant heels, and her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. She wasn’t the woman in jeans and an apron who greeted him at home. Her face held the serene, firm expression of someone accustomed to being in charge.
“Ji… Jimena,” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”
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