We stood in the departures hall of Mexico City International Airport, Terminal 1.
Alejandro wrapped his arms tightly around me.
“Shh… it’s okay, cariño,” he murmured, running his fingers gently through my hair. “It’s just two years in Toronto. I have to take this offer. It’s for our future. We’ll be able to save so much.”
I buried my face against his chest, my shoulders shaking.
“I’m going to miss you so much, Alejandro. Please be careful. Call me all the time…”
“I promise,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You handle things here. I love you, Sofia.”
I watched as he walked toward immigration.
Just before disappearing, he turned and waved one last time.
I waved back, tears blurring my vision.
But the second he vanished from sight…
the crying stopped.
I slowly wiped my cheeks.
The sorrow drained from my expression, replaced by something distant. Controlled. Cold.
I walked out of the airport with steady steps and my head high.
His “transfer to Toronto”?
A complete fabrication.
Three days before his flight, while he was in the shower, I noticed his email open on his laptop. There was no corporate contract from Canada.
Instead, there was confirmation for a luxury apartment in Polanco.
Leased for him.
And for his lover.
Valeria.
And she was pregnant.
Alejandro’s brilliant strategy was simple: pretend to relocate abroad so he could openly live with her without me interfering.
And the cruelest part?
He intended to slowly drain the $650,000 in our joint account—over eleven million pesos. Money built from my inheritance and years of hard work.
To finance his new “family.”
He thought I was naïve.
He believed I’d fallen for his dramatic airport goodbye.
I got into my car and drove straight home.
The moment I walked in, I headed for the office.
I opened my laptop and logged into our shared bank account.
Balance:
$650,000.00 USD
That was the amount he planned to withdraw piece by piece once he “arrived in Toronto.”
My hands trembled.
Not from fear.
From fury.
“You want a fresh start, Alejandro?” I whispered. “Fine. But you’ll begin with nothing.”
A few precise clicks.
I transferred every dollar into a private offshore account under my name—one he would never be able to access.
Transfer successful.
Remaining balance: $0.00
Then I made a call.
“Attorney Ramirez,” I said calmly. “He’s gone. Start the divorce proceedings and the common-law case. Send the legal notice to the Polanco address. Not Toronto.”
“Understood, Mrs. Sofia,” he replied.
Two hours later, my phone rang.
Alejandro.
He must have realized when he tried to use his card at the apartment—maybe for groceries, maybe for something trivial—and it was declined.
I answered sweetly.
“Hi, love. Did you land safely in Toronto?”
“SOFIA!” he yelled, panic cracking through his voice. “What did you do to our account? My card doesn’t work! The app shows zero!”
“Oh?” I replied calmly, swirling wine in my glass. “The money? I moved it.”
“You WHAT?! Where?! Transfer it back! That’s OUR money!”
“It was never ours,” I corrected quietly. “It was mine. And I consider it partial compensation for everything you’ve put me through.”
Silence.
“W-what are you talking about…?”
“I know,” I said evenly. “You’re not in Toronto. You’re in Polanco. With Valeria.”
I could hear his breathing falter.
“S-Sofia… let me explain…”
“There’s nothing to explain,” I cut in. “The tears at the airport? Those were the last I’ll ever cry for you. I was saying goodbye to the husband I once loved. The man you chose to stop being.”
“Sofia, please! I have no money! How am I supposed to survive?”
“Find employment,” I replied. “You’ve always been talented at inventing stories. Maybe turn that into something profitable.”
A pause.
“Good luck with your new life in Toronto.”
I smiled faintly. “I mean, Polanco.”
I ended the call.
Then I removed the SIM card from my phone and snapped it in half.
The house was silent when I looked around.
Yes, I was alone now.
But for the first time in years, I felt something unfamiliar.
Peace.
The unfaithful husband was gone.
The money was secure.
And I was finally free to begin again.