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.

I boarded the helicopter with a mix of anger and relief. The harness pressed against my chest, and the baby kicked as if protesting too. Below, Álvaro shouted something I couldn’t hear—and for the first time, it didn’t matter.

When we landed on the rooftop of the corporate building, Sergio greeted me with moist eyes.

“Forgive me for not telling you sooner,” he said.

“Don’t ask for forgiveness,” I replied. “Give me facts.”

They led me into a boardroom where my father stood waiting, no smile, carrying that imposing silence that had always commanded respect. Beside him, a legal and financial team had folders open like scalpels.

“Daughter,” he finally said, “I haven’t come to rescue you from a marriage. I’ve come to return what is yours. And to protect my grandson.”

I sat down, took a deep breath, and asked for the first things I needed to keep from breaking down: water, a comfortable chair, and all the evidence. We were going to do this properly. We were going to do it legally. And, above all, we were going to do it quickly.