That morning, Madrid seemed grayer than usual, and yet, my mood was strangely cheerful.
My name is Sofia and I was smoothing my husband Ricardo’s tie while he stood upright in front of the enormous mirror in our suite.
Our luxurious house in La Moraleja had been a silent witness to five years of what I believed to be happiness. At least… that’s what I thought until that day.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to prepare anything for the trip?” I asked sweetly, patting him on his broad chest.
“Valencia is far away.”
Ricardo smiled, that smile that always dispelled my worries. He gave me a slow kiss on the forehead.
“No, darling. I’m in a hurry. The client in Valencia wants an urgent meeting tonight. This project is important for my portfolio. I want to prove to your father that I can succeed without hiding behind your name.”
I nodded, proud of him. Ricardo was a “hard-working” husband… when the truth was that the money for his company, the Mitsubishi Montero he drove, and the designer suits he wore all came from me: from the dividends of the company I inherited and now ran.
