I glanced at it and smiled faintly. Predictable.

I didn’t reply.

Ten minutes later:

Daniel: “We can talk tomorrow before ten.”

Still nothing.

At midnight, Fernanda texted:

“If this is for attention, it’s coming off as desperate.”

I blocked her without finishing the message.

At 1 a.m., Patricia called. Again. And again. On the fourth attempt, she sent a voice message.

I didn’t listen.

I already knew the tone—offended, commanding, certain the world still revolved around her demands.

Instead, I opened another chat.

Arturo Vela—my lawyer.

I typed:

“Tomorrow at ten. Be there.”

He replied instantly:

“Already prepared. Don’t worry, Director.”

Director.

The word steadied me. Not because I needed reminding, but because for so long I had been shaped into something smaller that hearing my true position spoken plainly restored something essential.

At seven, I got dressed in an ivory suit—too “simple” for Patricia, too “formal” for Daniel.

Perfect.

This wasn’t reconciliation.

It was closure.

As I fixed my hair, I remembered the first time Patricia met me. Daniel had asked me beforehand not to talk too much about my work because his mother “felt uncomfortable around strong women.”

I agreed—young, in love, and naïve.

At dinner, Patricia scanned me like inventory and asked:

“What does your family do?”

Not who they were. Not with curiosity. With judgment.

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