Traffic crawled along the avenue. Horns blared. Street vendors shouted. The air felt heavy, suffocating.

Elena called for a ride.

Her phone vibrated.

It was a message from her best friend, Mariana:

“How did it go?”

Elena stared at the screen for a long time.

She typed: I’m pregnant.

Then deleted it.

She typed again: It’s three babies.

Deleted that too.

In the end, she replied:

“Everything’s fine. Just a routine check.”

The car dropped her off in the Doctores district.

Her temporary home.

A small, worn apartment on the sixth floor—with no elevator.

Four months ago, she had been the wife of Diego Cárdenas, heir to a powerful construction empire.

Now, she was a divorced, unemployed woman with less than 18,000 pesos left.

On the day of the divorce, Diego had handed her a check for 200,000 pesos.

“Three years of marriage,” he said coldly. “That’s fair.”

Elena had smiled.

Three years of her life.

Three years of giving up her career.

Three years caring for his sick mother, cooking his meals, waiting for him at night, enduring constant criticism.

And all of it was worth less than a fraction of his lifestyle.

The house was never hers.

The car wasn’t hers.

Even the shared bank account had been frozen the same day she signed the papers.

Her lawyer had warned her:

“If you fight this, it could take years—and cost more than you recover.”

So she walked away.

She just wanted freedom.

She never imagined she would leave that marriage carrying three lives inside her.

Inside the apartment, heat and silence wrapped around her.

There was almost nothing left—just an old couch, a table, and a nearly empty fridge.

Elena dropped her bag and collapsed to the floor.

Her phone rang.

Mariana.