I walked out of the courthouse with my coat open because my belly no longer fit into any “normal” clothes. I was seven months pregnant, and even so I felt cold—not from the Madrid winter, but from the paper trembling in my hands: the temporary ruling, the separation of assets, custody still pending. I had rehearsed the “I’m fine” face a thousand times, but when I stepped down the stairs, my throat tightened anyway.

“Let’s see how you survive without me,” Álvaro spat, not lowering his voice. “Without my last name, my money, my contacts.”

I bit my tongue to keep from answering. I didn’t want to give him a scene. The lawyers were still talking behind us, and all I wanted was to reach the car, breathe, feel the baby move, and remind myself that I was still alive. For seven years I had swallowed every “I’ll handle it,” every document placed in front of me to sign, every explanation about what was “best for the family.” And yet there I was: alone, humiliated, and pregnant.

I pressed the papers against my chest. The city kept moving—taxis, hurried footsteps, phone conversations. No one knew that, for me, the world had just changed. Clara looked at me with feigned pity, the kind that hurts more than an insult.

Then I heard it: first a distant buzzing, then a rush of wind that lifted leaves and dust. People turned their heads. The sound grew into a roar that made the courthouse windows vibrate. A black helicopter was descending right in front of us, taking up half the street as if it belonged there.