“Marco… is that Isabella again? I… I should go. She sounds upset. I don’t want to be here when she calls,”
Natalia’s nervous whisper carried through the line.
“Hey, don’t talk like that,” Marco replied softly, his tone far too tender for someone speaking about another woman’s husband. “You’ve suffered enough. Let me handle her, alright? I’ll take care of it.”
Then came a sound I’d never forget — the faint brush of lips. A kiss. Maybe on her cheek, maybe on her mouth. Either way, it was enough to make me sick.
And then the call ended.
I sat there, frozen. My lungs forgot how to work. My thoughts scattered like shattered glass.
My mother, the same woman who’d died three years ago of heart failure, had been my strength through everything. She was the type to wash dishes long after midnight, to fall asleep sitting upright at the table, to hide her tears when there wasn’t enough money for my prom dress. And now, Marco — my husband — had dragged her through the mud, desecrated her memory, and turned her into a mockery. All for Natalia.
---
I don’t remember the drive to the auction house. I only remember the moment I stepped inside, my knees nearly giving way.
Then I saw her face.
Younger. Frightened. Forced to pose under unforgiving lights, trying to smile while men circled like vultures. Photos of her from her days working in a club — before I was even born — filled the screens. They were displaying her like she was a collectible, not a person.
“That’s the wife’s mother?” one man murmured.
“Back then, she must’ve been quite the catch,” another chuckled.
“Guess it runs in the blood,” someone else sneered.
Each word cut like glass. Their laughter drowned out the pounding of my heart.
Then, the auctioneer’s cheerful voice sliced through the noise:
“Lot Number One — The legendary Sapphire Queen in her prime! Opening bid: three thousand dollars!”
Sapphire Queen. That was what they used to call her because of the blue gem she wore at the club. She’d never told me why she kept it — now I knew. It wasn’t jewelry. It was armor.
I forced back the bile rising in my throat and raised my paddle.
Every time someone bid, I went higher. Every dollar spent felt like another piece of my soul torn away. By the 299th photo, my hands were trembling, my stomach hollow. I’d reclaimed every image of her — but at what cost?
When I stumbled outside, my phone rang.
I didn’t want to answer. But I did.
Marco’s voice slid through the receiver, cruel and mocking.
“So? How was it? Did you enjoy the show? You’ve always loved auctions — was this one as exciting?”
I said nothing. My fingers ached from how tightly I’d been gripping the paddle.
He sighed, irritated. “Come on, Isabella. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving me over this.”
“Wouldn’t I have every reason to?” I whispered hoarsely.
He laughed — a cold, empty sound. “You can’t divorce me. Not without my consent. You know how this works.”
Silence.
He’d forgotten.
Forgotten that he’d already signed the divorce papers months ago.
Then his tone softened, almost playful. “Consider today a warning. You act up, I remind you who’s in charge. Oh, and my grandfather’s wedding anniversary is tomorrow night. Be ready. You’re coming.”
Before I could respond, the line clicked dead — along with whatever was left of my love for him.
---
The following evening came dressed in silk and menace. The Cortez wedding anniversary — the family’s sacred gathering — was less a celebration and more a demonstration of dominance. Under the chandeliers and crystal glasses were men who’d killed, bribed, and built empires from blood.
Marco arrived in his black Maserati, didn’t bother opening the door. I slid into the passenger seat on my own.
His gaze flicked over me, detached. “You’ve lost weight. Like bamboo — too thin, but hard to break.”
“Didn’t bring Natalia?” I asked, my tone flat.
He tapped his fingers on the wheel. “Not tonight. I’ll keep her away from you from now on. You’ve embarrassed this family enough.”
A small, bitter smile touched my lips. He wasn’t protecting me from her. He was protecting her from me.
As we curved along the highway, he asked, almost casually, “Where are the twins? The old men are bound to ask.”
I didn’t even blink. “Mateo’s gone. Dead. The bomb. You remember that, don’t you?”
He gave a short, cruel laugh. “Still milking that story? Playing the grieving mother — that’s rich.”
I turned my face toward the window, watching the trees smear into green streaks.
There was nothing left in me to grieve. He’d already killed the part of me that could feel pain. He could mock, taunt, desecrate my son’s memory all he wanted.
I’d buried my sorrow.
And soon, I’d bury him too — without ever getting my hands dirty.
+++
The party itself was a theater of masks — silk gowns hiding secrets, polished smiles concealing vendettas. The Cortezs thrived on reputation, legacy, and silent rivalry.
Marco held my hand the moment we entered, pretending affection for the crowd.
His grandfather rose when he saw us, moving slowly but smiling wide.
“Isabella, my dear girl,” he said, kissing both my cheeks. “Still the finest woman in the room. Marco’s lucky, though he doesn’t deserve you.”
I smiled faintly. “Thank you, Grandpa.”
Then came the matriarch — his wife, her sharp eyes raking over me like she was inspecting a stain on her favorite gown.
“You look… tired,” she said, sweetly venomous. “Try to take better care of yourself, dear. People notice these things.”
Marco stayed silent, as always when his family belittled me.
We hadn’t even reached the dining table when Natalia entered, her parents flanking her like proud escorts. She wore white silk — a mockery of purity — and her head tilted just so, the perfect picture of humility.
Her mother’s smile was polished and poisonous. “Mrs. Cortez,” she greeted. “You look… resilient. We were just saying how admirable your strength is.”
Her husband nodded. “You’ve been juggling so much. Especially after everything Natalia’s endured. But she insisted on being here. Such a compassionate girl, isn’t she?”
“She has no bitterness in her heart,” her mother added softly. “An example to all of us.”
Natalia lowered her gaze, the perfect portrait of innocence.
I didn’t dignify them with a word.
I simply walked past — my silence louder than anything I could have said.
