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.

The next forty-eight hours were a succession of cold decisions I had to make with a slow body and a mind on fire. The legal team patiently explained how to dismantle a castle built on forged signatures and opaque contracts: filing charges for identity fraud, requesting precautionary measures over the company, blocking any sale operations, and urgently petitioning to prevent Álvaro from touching another euro “until responsibilities are clarified.” It sounded technical, but at its core it was simple: turn off the tap before he drained everything.

The hardest part wasn’t the paperwork—it was the mirror. At times I saw myself as an executive returning to command; at others, as a pregnant woman who still remembered the smell of her living room when he came home late and said, “Don’t exaggerate.” I forced myself to hold both versions of me without despising either one. The Lucía who fell in love wasn’t foolish—she trusted.