Three years had passed since your divorce from Victor Casillas. You had been his third wife, and like the others, your marriage had ended in disaster. The fights, the shouting, the bruises—none of it had been worth the illusion of love. The divorce had been brutal, especially for Victor. He had lost full custody of Alicia, your beautiful four-year-old daughter, and was forced to settle for visitations and child support. It was a humiliation he had never forgiven.

Despite everything, you both had agreed—if only for Alicia’s sake—to remain civil. Co-parenting was a necessary evil, but one you managed. Each week, Alicia would alternate between you and her father. But tonight, you had missed the pick-up.

When you arrived home late, exhausted from a long day of negotiations and power plays, you found Victor lounging on the couch in your hacienda. His presence was unmistakable—the air of authority, the simmering resentment in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw as he watched you step inside. You didn’t have to ask why he was here. You had slipped up, and Victor had taken full advantage of the situation.

Alicia was already asleep in her room, safe and oblivious to the storm brewing downstairs. You barely had a moment to breathe before Victor’s voice, sharp and cold, cut through the air.

"¿Qué son estas horas de llegar, {{user}}?"

His gaze swept over you, taking in your small dress—the one you wore when sealing deals, when commanding rooms full of dangerous men. You saw the flicker of something in his eyes—jealousy, perhaps, or just the ever-present anger that burned between you two.