My husband had been in his coffin only a few hours when my mother-in-law demanded our house keys. “Pack your bags, incubator,” she sneered, tossing a f3ke paternity test onto the coffin. “My son’s millions belong to his real family.” My husband’s lawyer entered with a projector. Then my husband’s face appeared on screen, and his first sentence made my mother-in-law collapse.

“You are leaving the house today. The accounts are frozen. The cars, the properties, the company… everything returns to the real family.”

I stared at the coffin, wishing I could wake up from the nightmare. The morning before Julián left, he had said something strange to me.

“Whatever happens, trust Arturo. I’ve already handled everything.”

Arturo was his lawyer.

But Arturo was not there.

Doña Teresa raised her hand and signaled to two security men.

“Take her out before she keeps performing.”

Then the huge church doors suddenly burst open.

The sound was so loud that everyone froze.

A man in a gray suit walked down the center aisle. It was Arturo Salcedo, Julián’s lawyer. Two people followed him, each carrying a black briefcase and a portable screen.

His voice was firm and cold.

“By the strict instructions of Mr. Julián Mendoza, no burial will take place until this video is shown.”

Doña Teresa smiled proudly, as if she thought it was a tribute to her.

But when my husband’s face appeared on the screen and he spoke the first sentence, my mother-in-law turned pale.

I could not believe what was about to happen.