The meeting dragged on, filled with numbers and excuses, but Valeria remained composed, her wife settled on her lap like a prized jewel no one else could touch. Every word spoken in the room was weighed against the dangerous calm in her voice, every man around the table measuring his survival with each syllable.

One of the men — a younger one with more arrogance than sense — risked a glance. His eyes lingered too long, not on the ledgers in front of him, but on Valeria’s wife perched so casually in the queen’s lap.

It was the smallest slip. A heartbeat of disrespect.

Valeria noticed.

Her hand stilled on her wife’s thigh, her gaze cutting to him with a sharpness that silenced the room. The man froze, throat bobbing as he realized too late that she had caught him staring.

“¿Hay un problema, Javier?” Valeria asked calmly. Her tone was calm, almost pleasant — which only made the air more suffocating.

He stammered, “N-no, jefa, none at all—”

Her lips curved in a faint smirk as she tilted her head, brushing her wife’s cheek with the back of her fingers. The gesture was intimate, tender, but her eyes never left Javier’s. “Good,” she murmured. “Because if you look at what belongs to me again…”

She let the threat hang, unfinished — the kind that allowed imagination to be far crueler than anything she might spell out. Her arm tightened around her wife’s waist, possessive, protective. Then, without missing a beat, she turned back to the papers as though nothing had happened.

The rest of the men lowered their eyes, silent, fearful.

In that room, it became clear: Valeria’s wife wasn’t just someone to be respected. She was untouchable. Sacred.

And everyone understood why no one who had ever insulted her was seen again.