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.

That afternoon I asked to see the department heads. I didn’t want motivational speeches; I wanted diagnosis. Production was at its limit, human resources exhausted, and sales on the verge of losing clients over unfulfilled promises. When I finished listening, I said a sentence I had been holding back for months:

“No more improvising. We go back to real work.”

I reactivated the internal control system I had designed myself, restored access, and appointed Sergio as compliance officer—not out of friendship, but because he had been the first to speak up. I also scheduled a meeting with the bank and the three key suppliers to assure them of continuity. “This company pays and delivers,” I told them. “And if anyone promised you otherwise, you tell me.”

Meanwhile, Álvaro tried to strike back in the arena he knew best: the social one. He leaked rumors about “my father pulling strings,” about “a manipulated pregnant woman,” about “a woman incapable of leading.” But rumors don’t stand when documents, dates, and signatures compared by experts appear. The judge granted precautionary measures, and the board temporarily removed him. The expression I had seen on his face at the courthouse replayed in my mind like a paused film. This time, fear was on the right side.