Even if you manage to put the pieces together… the crack will always be there.”
The day I signed my divorce papers, I didn’t cry.
Not because I was strong—
but because I had already emptied every tear I had three months earlier,
the night I discovered that the man I called my husband…
was bringing his mistress into our marital bed.
That day at the courthouse, he actually smiled.
A smug, victorious smile.
“All done,” he said.
“We’re finally free.”
I didn’t respond.
I just signed my name.
Three years of marriage, reduced to a few cold lines.
No fight over assets.
No custody.
Nothing to bind us together.
A clean ending.
Almost hollow.
Or rather…
he thought it was.
Only him.
His name is Ricardo. Two years younger than me. Handsome, charming, sweet-talking like a man trained in seduction.
When we were dating, I thought I was lucky.
When we married, I thought I was chosen.
But after divorcing him, I finally understood:
I had just been a tool.
We got married right when I inherited my parents’ interior design firm, LNA Signature Designs.
Back then, Ricardo was a simple sales employee—we met during the launch of our new boutique in Polanco.
At first, he treated me like a queen.
Attentive. Loving. Perfect.
Until I put the Colonial-style Coyoacán house under my name—
the same house he always said:
“Just put it under your name for paperwork, but it’s ours, mi amor.”
Until his parents got used to me paying for their medical bills,
their home renovations,
their lavish year-end parties.
Until Ricardo said the sentence that finally opened my eyes:
“You only have your name on the deed, but the house belongs to my family. You should understand.”
I smiled quietly.
Because once, I was a woman who believed in good intentions.
But that woman no longer existed.
Three months earlier, I found the messages:
“My love.”
“My little girlfriend.”
“Let’s get married soon.”
Her name was Violeta—
a new marketing employee in my company.
The night I confronted him at 1 a.m., I held my phone in his face.
“What is this?”
He didn’t panic.
He didn’t apologize.
He didn’t even pretend.
“I love her,” he said calmly.
“We should end things.”
I waited for regret.
For guilt.
For anything.
But he only added:
“Let’s divorce. Let’s give each other freedom.”
In that silence, I realized:
He had a plan.
And deep down, he expected me to cry, beg, scream.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Back to divorce day—
As soon as we walked out of the courthouse, he grinned like a man who thought he’d won the lottery.
“I’m going to see Violeta. Tonight my family’s celebrating my freedom.”
I simply said:
“Be happy, Ricardo.”
He gave me a self-satisfied look.
“Thanks for stepping aside willingly. Not everyone is that smart.”
In his eyes, I was the loser.
What he didn’t know was that before signing the divorce…
I had already transferred the Coyoacán estate
into my company’s name—
a business I owned before marriage, notarized and protected under separate property laws.
Meaning:
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