When I heard my husband telling his friends, between bursts of laughter, that he doubted “this joke of a marriage” would last another year because I “wasn’t even on his level,” something inside me broke—but not in my voice.

A few days later, Javier received an email from his boss summoning him to an urgent meeting. I wasn’t there, but Diego described his face when he came out of the office: pale, his jaw tight. The studio had received an anonymous folder containing copies of emails, suspicious account movements, and a formal complaint from “an affected party” regarding his sexist remarks. The Barcelona contract was frozen “pending further review.”

I hadn’t sent the folder myself. Nuria had handled everything, following the legal timing as if she were directing a play.

Soon after, the divorce negotiations began. Javier arrived at the first meeting with a wrinkled suit and red eyes.

“You don’t have to make this so difficult,” he spat when the lawyer explained our terms.

“You didn’t have to turn our marriage into a bet either,” I replied calmly.

His eyes locked onto mine, for the first time without arrogance.

“Diego?” he asked, barely moving his lips.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.