Thirty seconds later, Fernando himself comes on.
His voice is lower than you remember from the bus, less urgent, edged with fatigue. “Valeria?”
You close your eyes at the sound of your own name in a tone that holds neither entitlement nor pity. “I’m sorry it’s late.”
“I’m awake,” he says. Then, after the smallest pause, “Did the pain come back?”
The question lands with almost indecent gentleness.
You tell him no, not exactly. You tell him about the folder, the merger, the licensing rights, the way Alejandro is already moving pieces on a board you can barely see from this room. You do not ask for help outright. Pride and old habits still stop you from that. But by the time you finish, the silence on the line has become something thoughtful, not distant.
“Don’t sign anything,” Fernando says.
A bitter laugh escapes you. “That part I understood.”
“I mean anything,” he says. “No press response, no private settlement letter, no back-channel offer from his lawyers, nothing. If he needs your signature, then you are not as ruined as he wants you to feel.”
You press one hand to your stomach without realizing it. “You make that sound simple.”
