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.

The worst part was that he did it looking right at me.

Like he wanted to see how much I could take.

Around us were his work friends, mortified, pretending to check their phones or take long swigs of their beers. I took a deep breath before speaking, because if I opened my mouth with my chest burning, I was going to scream.

“So, why do you live with me like you’re my partner?” I asked quietly.

Emiliano let out a short, mocking laugh.

“Oh, Regina, don’t make a scene,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. “I just gave him my number.”

“Just?”

“Yes. We live together, we’ve been dating for three years, but that doesn’t mean you can treat me like you bought me.”

The sentence hit me like ice water.

Not because it surprised me.

But because it confirmed something I’d been denying for far too long.