Ricardo smiled—that smile that always melted away my worries. He placed a slow kiss on my forehead.
“No, love. I’m in a hurry. The client in Valencia wants an urgent meeting tonight. This project is important for my portfolio. I want to show your father that I can succeed without hiding behind your name.”
I nodded, proud of him. Ricardo was a “hard-working” husband… when the truth was that his company’s money, the Mitsubishi Montero he drove, and the designer suits he wore all came from me—from the dividends of the company I inherited and now ran. But I never held it against him. In a marriage, what’s mine is his too… right?
“Be careful,” I said. “Text me when you get to the hotel.”
He agreed, took his keys, and left. I watched him disappear behind the carved oak door—and felt a slight, unsettling tug in my chest. A warning I brushed aside. Maybe it was just that guilty relief of having the house to myself for a few days.
Later that afternoon, after several meetings at the office, my thoughts drifted to Laura—my best friend since college. She had texted me the day before saying she’d been admitted to a hospital in Segovia with acute typhoid fever.
