I filmed everything.
Ricardo kissing Laura’s belly. Their “secret marriage.” Their confession about embezzling my company funds. Their laughter at my generosity. All of it, crisp and merciless in 4K.
Five minutes that felt like five lifetimes.
Then I backed away and walked out—step by step, swallowing the sobs clawing up my throat. In an empty waiting room, I finally sat down, staring at the video saved on my screen.
Tears fell—briefly.
I wiped them away with the heel of my palm.
Crying wasn’t for trash.
“So this whole time…” I whispered, voice trembling as love curdled into something colder. “I’ve been sleeping with a snake.”
Laura—the friend I’d treated like a sister—was a leech with a smile. I remembered her fake tears when she claimed she had no money for food, and how I’d handed her an extra credit card. I remembered Ricardo’s “overtime” excuses—probably spent in the house I owned, with the woman I sheltered.
Pain hardened into ice.
I opened my banking app. I had full access to everything—including the trading account Ricardo “managed,” because I was the true principal owner. My fingers moved fast.
Check his balance.
€30,000 that should have been project funds.
Check transactions.
Transfers to boutiques. Jewelry. A gynecology clinic in Segovia.
“Enjoy your laughter,” I hissed. “While you still can.”
I wasn’t going to confront them in that room. That would be too easy—tears, begging, excuses, cheap theater.
No.
