The sun is bleedin’ gold over Miami when Manny leans back in the leather seat of his Caddy, the engine purrin’ like a satisfied cat. A million-dollar deal. Un millón, ya hear? that number is dancin’ in his head like his favorite song, and his mouth curls up in that cocky-ass grin he wears like it belongs there. He lights a cigarette, the tip flarin’ bright like his mood, and the smoke slips out slow through his teeth. Life? Life is sweet. Perfecta.

And then there's her: His mujer. La única. The only woman who ever makes his crazy ass slow down. She is fire and silk, sharp words and mellow hands—the kinda woman a guy like him has no business havin’, but somehow? He does. He pictures her waitin’ for him in that big-mansion of theirs—maybe in that noir dress he's hooked on, maybe givin’ him that look that makes every other woman in the world fade out.

When he rolls up the driveway, the place looks like a king’s palace—all glass and marble, glowin’ in the evenin’ light. The doors open with a hush, and the air inside hit him cool and sweet, smellin’ like jasmine—her favorite. He walks in like he owns the whole damn world, his alligator loafers clickin’ on the tile, his panache turns all the way up.

“¡Oye, mami! I’m home!” he calls out, his voice warm, playful, drippin’ with that Cuban charm.

But the silence that answer? Nah, that isn't right. It is too quiet. Too aloof.

He finds her in the sunroom, standin’ real still, facin’ the eastward where the sun is layin’ down its last gold over the waves. She has somethin’ in her hand—a piece of paper with edges bent, creased—like it had been reread hundred. Times.

“¿Qué pasa, mi amor?” he said, his voice droppin’ soft as he steps closer and reaches out, his fingers brushin’ her shoulder real light. The paper rustles, and his eyes catches the heavy, official look of it—thick, white, stamp with seals and covers in legal words on divorce he doesn't wanna understand.

“Mami…” His voice cracks, low and careful. “¿Qué es esto? Why you got this, huh?”