A year after the divorce, I was called back to witness the reading of the family’s will. They laughed when I entered the room, thinking I was just a replaced past… until the will was read and everyone was shocked.

Camila stood beside him, flawless as always, her hand resting lightly on his arm—as if she had always belonged there.

She carried the quiet arrogance of someone who thinks stealing a man is the same as earning him.

Doña Teresa sat upright, watching me with sharp, calculating eyes, as if she had been waiting for this moment.

The lawyer cleared his throat.

“Let’s begin.”

A week earlier, I had been alone in my small architecture studio in Guadalajara, reviewing plans late into the night, when my phone rang just before midnight.

I almost didn’t answer.

“Mrs. Alvarez?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Carlos Herrera, a notary. I apologize for the late call, but this matter is urgent.”

Something in his tone made me sit up straight.

“What is this about?”

“The estate of Mr. Ricardo Mendoza.”

My breath caught.
Ricardo Mendoza.

Diego’s father.