Both of them went pale.
“I have everything,” I continued. “Screenshots. Hotel records. Bank transfers you made using my money to buy her gifts. The private investigator I hired was very thorough.”
Lidia Ríos tried to intervene the next day. She showed up at the hotel where I was staying, dressed in her usual expensive but tasteless jewelry.
“Sofía, please. For the family. Think of the child that’s coming.”
I laughed.
“The same family that celebrated my replacement while I paid for your lifestyle? The child will be fine. Mauricio is the father — let him take responsibility for once in his life. Without my money.”
I gave her one final warning.
“Stay away from me and my company. If any of you try to slander me publicly, I will release every piece of evidence. Your precious family name will be dragged through the mud.”
The following weeks were brutal for them.
They moved into a small apartment in a modest neighborhood — a far cry from the mansion with its pool, cinema room, and three-acre garden. Mauricio tried to access his sports cars. All of them had been repossessed or transferred. The bank accounts I had gifted him over the years were emptied and closed.
Valeria’s pregnancy became difficult. The stress made her blood pressure spike. Mauricio, who had never worked a real job in his life, was forced to beg for work from old friends. Most turned him away once the scandal spread through Mexico City’s high society.
I, meanwhile, thrived.
I redecorated my new penthouse overlooking Chapultepec Park. I threw myself into work and expanded the company further. I started therapy, not because I was broken, but because I wanted to heal the version of myself that had tolerated disrespect for so long.
Two months after their wedding, Mauricio came to me again — this time alone, looking thinner and desperate.
