That morning, Madrid looked grayer than usual—yet my spirits were strangely bright. I’m Sofia, and I was busy smoothing my husband Ricardo’s tie as he stood tall in front of the oversized mirror in our master bedroom. Our luxurious home in La Moraleja had been the quiet witness to five years of what I thought was happiness. Or at least… that’s what I believed until that day.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to pack you something for the drive?” I asked softly, patting his broad chest.
“Valencia is a long way.”
Ricardo smiled—the kind of smile that always dissolved my worries. He pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead.
“No, my love. I’m in a rush. The client in Valencia wants an urgent meeting tonight. This project matters for my portfolio. I want to prove to your father I can succeed without hiding behind your family name.”
I nodded, proud of him. Ricardo was a “hard-working” husband… even though the truth was that the money for his business, the Mitsubishi Montero he drove, and the designer suits he wore had all come from me—dividends from the company I inherited and now ran. But I never rubbed it in. In marriage, what’s mine is his too… right?
