The scent of polished cedar and imported Italian leather hung thick in Héctor Salgado’s office, the kind of luxury that announced power before a word was spoken. From the glass wall on the thirty-fifth floor, Mexico City sprawled beneath him—alive, ruthless, obedient. Héctor took a slow sip of his espresso and smiled at the numbers glowing on his screen.
The Santa Fe development had shattered projections. Profits had doubled.
Moments earlier, he had finalized the purchase of a mansion worth twenty million pesos.
Not for his wife.
For Valeria.
Across the desk sat Elena, his legal wife of fifteen years. She flipped through an architecture magazine with unhurried elegance, her posture flawless, her expression unreadable. Anyone watching might have assumed she was waiting for a meeting to start.
Her calm made his jaw tighten.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Héctor said, setting his cup down harder than necessary. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
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