“Diego! Open up! It’s cold!”
Diego pulled hard on the door. Nothing. He touched the wall panel. The panel only showed a red lock.
Then I heard his voice change.
“Mariana… Mariana, open the door.”
I kept working.
I logged into the bank. The joint account had almost 3 million pesos that I had deposited for household expenses and Diego’s “projects.” Projects that had never existed. With a few clicks, I transferred everything to my business account, protected by the prenuptial agreement he had signed while mocking me, saying that “only insecure women thought about divorce.”
Then I blocked his cards. The credit card. The supplementary card. The gas card. All of them.
Inside, the laughter turned into shouting. The children were crying. The cousins were complaining. Doña Teresa was shrieking that I was crazy.
At 3:17 in the morning, I sent an encrypted email to my lawyer. I attached the security camera footage, the audios, the photos of my clothes in bags, and the video where Diego said I could sleep in the shed.
