At 3:16 a.m., my husband texted me: I married Valeria. I’ve been sleeping with her for ten months. You’re boring and pathetic.” I read the message four times, sitting on the living room couch with the TV on mute, blue light washing over my face like something colder than a slap

sandals, glossy hair spilling over her shoulders like an advertisement. Sunlight caught the ring on her finger.

For one brief second, something dry cracked inside my chest.

Then Rodrigo noticed the chain on the door.

His expression shifted instantly.

“Mariana,” he said carefully, like someone soothing a dangerous animal. “Open the door.”

“No.”

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