I kept the picture.
Then I opened the board chat. There were the partners, the auditors, the corporate lawyer, two Monterrey investors and even Don Ernesto, Rodrigo’s father, who still held stocks and pride.
My finger stayed still for a second.
Then I forwarded the photo.
And I wrote:
“It seems that our CEO is working overtime on a very intimate project. Miss Valeria deserves recognition for her surrender. Congratulations to both. Hopefully the heir will arrive soon and with preferred shares.”
I sent.
Nothing happened for a few seconds.
Then the blue popcorn began to appear.
One. One.
Three.
Seven.
Twelve.
The scandal was already awake.
I woke up without making noise. I pulled out of the safe a black suitcase that had been ready for two months: passport, deeds, statements, copies of contracts, two new phones and a folder with emails that Rodrigo never imagined I had.
I took off my ring.
I left it on his pillow.
I went down to the garage and didn’t take the Mercedes or the armored van. I took a gray, discreet car, registered in the name of a shell company that Rodrigo had forgotten.
When I left the house, Mexico City was still asleep.
Not me.
At 5:20 I was on my way to the airport.
At 6:40 she was sitting on a flight to Merida, with a coffee in her hand and a new phone on.
I wrote to my lawyer:
“Execute the plan.”
His answer came instantly:
“Confirmed.”
