That irritates Damián more than tears ever would.
He liked you flustered. He liked you apologizing. He liked you soft enough to shape into whatever made him feel bigger. But that version of you began dying the moment you found the apartment receipts, and whatever remains now has iron stitched through its spine.
Your mother lowers the window and catches your wrist for a second.
“Call me the moment you’re done,” she says, her voice tight with worry.
You squeeze her fingers and nod. “I will.”
What you do not say is that by noon, nothing in Damián’s life will feel as certain as it does right now.
Inside the courthouse, the hall smells of paper, wet wool, and old tension. Your lawyer, Javier Ortega, is waiting near the family court office, his navy tie slightly crooked and his expression unreadable except for the flicker in his eyes when he sees you arrive alone. He steps forward immediately, takes your umbrella, and speaks in a low voice meant only for you.
“Everything is in place,” he says. “But once we start, there’s no pulling it back.”
