“Sign this or I’ll drag this out for years,” my husband spat at me, shoving the papers I paid for in full into the attic. He was smiling as if throwing me out would break me.

Lucía handled everything. I wasn’t going back to that penthouse alone. On the day of the handover, we arrived with a notary, a locksmith, and the building administrator. It wasn’t drama—it was precaution. In Seville, new buildings have cameras, concierges, curious neighbors. This time, all of that worked in my favor.

When we arrived, Dario was on the landing, wearing an expensive sweatshirt and the expression of someone who hadn’t slept. Beside him stood an older man in a suit—his lawyer, Alonso Rivas—pale and furious.

“Mara, this is an abuse,” Alonso began. “You signed—”

Lucía cut him off, holding an open folder.

“You know perfectly well what your client signed,” she said. “And you know he signed it after exerting coercion. We have audio recordings, messages, and witnesses. If you persist, we’ll file charges for threats and coercion.”

Dario laughed, but it rang hollow.

“Coercion? I only told her the truth,” he spat. “She’s weak. She signed because she wanted to.”

I felt the urge to argue. To explain myself. But I remembered what Lucía had told me: in a conflict with someone like that, every word is fuel.