He told me in front of everyone, “We’re not married, you don’t belong to me,” to justify his betrayal, but a few hours later, when he returned from the club and saw the apartment half empty, he discovered that this supposed freedom would cost him much more than he had imagined.

PART 1

“You’re not even my wife, so tone down your jealousy.”

He said it without lowering his voice, tequila glass in hand, an arrogant smile plastered on his face, as if he’d just said something brilliant and not humiliated me in front of half the bar.

I stood still, feeling like I couldn’t breathe. The waitress, a young woman with eyeliner and a high ponytail, was still standing by our table, the check between her fingers. On the back of the receipt, in Emiliano’s handwriting, was his phone number. Big. Clear. Shameless.

And that wasn’t the worst part.