His face was distorted with contempt, his finger pointed aggressively at me as if I were some unwanted intruder or a common trespasser. Behind him, the view was even more disheartening. I could see his parents, his brothers, and several other relatives scattered throughout my home. They were drinking beer from my crystal glasses and leaving their dirty shoes all over my pristine white living-room carpet.
My name is Valeria. I’m thirty-two years old and a professional marine biologist. I work in Veracruz, where I’ve spent nearly a decade building a career that I am immensely proud of. The beach house where they were currently yelling at me from the doorway is not just any house—it belongs to me. I purchased it three years ago using the money I had saved through years of grueling work and careful investments. It was my reward for all those years of dedication and personal sacrifice.
The house is situated right by the ocean in Costa Esmeralda, Veracruz, about a two-hour drive from the city. It is my sanctuary, the place I escape to whenever I need distance from my job, the noise of the world, and the relentless stress of city life. Yet, judging from the furious, entitled look on my brother-in-law’s face, you would have thought I was the one breaking in.
“Excuse me?” I finally managed to say, forcing my voice to remain steady and calm despite the hot anger rising in my chest.
“You heard me,” he snapped back.
His name is Ricardo, and he has been married to my older sister, Camila, for five years. “We’re having a family gathering here. Nobody invited you,” he said with a straight face.
I blinked, trying to wrap my head around the sheer absurdity of his statement. “Ricardo, this is my house. I am the owner.”
“Well, Camila said we could use it this weekend,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest defensively. “So if you don’t want to ruin everyone’s fun, you should probably leave.”
