What a sh0ck to visit my friend in the hospital. My husband was taking care of her. I withdrew my assets and blocked them…

And a man’s voice—warm, teasing, painfully familiar—stopped my blood mid-flow.
“Open your mouth, darling. Here comes the little airplane…”
My stomach dropped. That voice had kissed my forehead that morning. That voice had promised Valencia.
No. It couldn’t be.
Shaking, I stepped closer to the crack in the door and held my breath as I peered inside.
The scene hit like a sledgehammer.
Laura sat upright on the bed—healthy, glowing, not pale at all. She wore satin pajamas, not a hospital gown. And perched beside her, feeding her apple slices with tender patience, was Ricardo.
My husband.
His eyes were soft—devoted in the exact way they had been when we were newlyweds.
“My wife is so spoiled,” Ricardo murmured, wiping the corner of Laura’s mouth with his thumb.
My wife.
The hallway tilted. I had to brace myself against the wall to keep my knees from folding.
Then Laura’s voice—sweet, whining, intimate—floated out like poison.
“When are you going to tell Sofia? I’m tired of hiding. And now I’m only a few weeks pregnant. Our child needs to be acknowledged.”
Pregnant.
Our child.

It felt like lightning split my chest.
Ricardo set the plate down and clasped Laura’s hands, kissing her knuckles like she was royalty.
“Be patient. If I divorce Sofia now, I lose everything. She’s smart—everything is under her name. The car, the watch, the project capital… it’s all her money.” He chuckled softly, almost admiring my usefulness. “But don’t worry. We’ve been secretly married for two years.”
Laura pouted. “So you’ll keep being her parasite? You said you were proud.”
Ricardo laughed—a casual, confident sound.
“Exactly because I’m proud. I need more capital first. I’ve been siphoning money from her company into my account—cost overruns, fake projects. Just wait. When we’ve saved enough for our own place and business, I’ll kick her to the curb. I’m sick of pretending to be nice to her. She’s controlling. You’re better… you’re submissive.”
Laura giggled.

“Is the Segovia house safe? Sofia won’t claim it?”
“It’s safe,” he said. “The deed isn’t in my name yet, but Sofia’s naïve. She thinks the house is empty. She doesn’t know the ‘poor friend’ she’s helping is the queen in her husband’s heart.”
They laughed together—bright, carefree, cruel.
My hands clenched so hard around the fruit basket that the handle bit into my skin. I wanted to smash the door open. I wanted to tear her hair out, slap him until his mouth forgot how to lie.
But a voice—old advice I’d once heard—cut through my rage:
If an enemy attacks, don’t fight with emotion. Strike when they don’t expect it. Destroy the foundation, then bring down the whole building.
My shaking hand slid into my pocket. I pulled out my newest phone, muted it, and turned on video recording. Carefully, I aimed the lens through the crack.

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