Their home in La Moraleja looked flawless, especially at Christmas. Isabel—an accomplished architect—had designed it herself: glass, cedar, quarry stone, all precision and prestige. A towering fir tree glittered with silver ornaments. The air smelled of mulled wine and gingerbread. Their children, ten-year-old Mateo and eight-year-old Sofía, had built a little candy village on the sideboard.
From the outside, it was perfect. From the inside, it was a performance everyone was tired of giving.
Earlier that evening, Alejandro had played his role beautifully. He’d paced with his phone pressed to his ear, voice full of urgency, then turned to Isabel with regret carefully arranged on his face.
If he didn’t leave tonight, he claimed, everything would collapse. Billions at risk. Clients panicking. The kind of disaster only he could prevent.
Isabel nodded on cue. She even helped him find his passport. She asked about the children. He gave her a heroic smile and said she should tell them Dad had to “save the world.” He promised he’d be back on the 26th. He promised he’d make it up to them.
Now, the children slept upstairs, stockings hanging heavy on the fireplace. Alejandro stepped down in his black coat, checked his watch, and announced the company car was waiting.
Isabel walked to him, smoothed his lapel, and searched his eyes for the man she once loved—the student who used to debate architecture with her and take rainy walks just because. She found nothing. Only emptiness.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
His kiss was brief and cold, more transaction than tenderness. He grabbed his bag and left, telling her not to wait up.
