He lost the house.
Forever.
I would never let a traitor live inside something I built.
That night, his entire family threw a celebration.
In their group chat, someone wrote:
“Tonight we celebrate Ricardo’s liberation!”
I wasn’t invited.
Not that I cared.
My mother-in-law once adored me.
But the second Violeta entered the picture, I became an inconvenience.
She once told me:
“Women must know their place. Violeta is young, beautiful, and knows how to please a man. You should think about Ricardo’s future.”
His future?
Apparently, my job was to disappear quietly.
Fine.
But I would disappear on my terms.
That night, at a fancy seafood restaurant in La Condesa, Ricardo knelt down and opened a velvet box containing a giant diamond ring—
worth 3 million pesos.
“Violeta, will you marry me?”
She burst into tears.
“Yes! Of course!”
The whole family clapped like seals.
A friend told me the news.
I didn’t feel pain.
Just… clarity.
Because I knew what would happen next.
Around 11 p.m., they all returned to the house.
The Coyoacán estate was completely dark. Silent.
Ricardo placed his thumb on the fingerprint lock.
The door opened.
And the entire family froze.
The house was empty.
No furniture.
No appliances.
No Italian imported sofa set.
No Murano chandelier.
No paintings.
Not even the curtains remained.
Every room echoed.
My mother-in-law screamed:
“WHAT HAPPENED?! Who emptied the house?!”
Violeta gasped:
“Baby, did we get robbed?!”
Ricardo turned white.
He ran through every room, every hallway, every corner—
nothing.
He dialed my number.
I answered immediately.
“Elena! What did you do to my house?!”
“My house?”
I laughed softly.
“You’re mistaken.”
“What?!”
“That estate belongs to LNA Signature Designs.
A business that is legally mine.
Not marital property.
Not your family’s property.
Not yours.”
Silence.
“I filed the property protection notice with the authorities this morning,” I continued calmly.
“And the security contract was signed last week.”
Then I delivered the final blow:
“Congratulations, Ricardo.
You didn’t just lose your wife.
You lost your home.”
He shouted:
“You’re insane! Where will you live?!”
I smiled.
“I have other homes. Many, actually.”
Silence again.
“And you, Ricardo? Where will you live?”
In the background, his mother screamed:
“Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me the house isn’t hers!”
Ricardo stuttered.
“Elena… can we talk? Can we meet… please?”
I cut him off.
“But why would you need me?”
“Don’t you have Violeta now?”
More silence.
Then I ended with:
“Don’t call your betrayal ‘freedom.’
It’s not that I can’t live without you—
it’s that you don’t deserve to live with what I built.”
And I hung up.
Three days later, the office was buzzing:
“Violeta quit.”
“The 3-million ring was bought on credit.”
“Ricardo’s family had to move out—they had no legal rights to stay.”
The man who called divorce his liberation…
now had to rent a tiny apartment.
And I?
I sat in my new high-rise condo with a view of the city, drinking coffee, reviewing a new project.
I didn’t seek revenge.
I simply restored everything to where it truly belonged.
People often ask me:
“Do you regret it?”
Never.
Regretting losing someone who didn’t value you—that’s foolish.
But regretting losing someone who tried to use you?
That’s insanity.
A month later, Ricardo asked to meet.
I went—just to see what remained of the man who once thought he had won.
He looked thinner.
Tired.
Eyes hollow.
“Elena… forgive me,” he murmured.
“I don’t need your apology,” I replied.
“I made a mistake,” he whispered.
“Whether you did or not doesn’t matter. What matters is this—
you finally understand what you lost.”
His voice cracked:
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