Chapter 2: The Breaking Point
I had an urgent trip to New York for a merger that would launch my company internationally. Stress was sky-high. Suitcases were loaded, the armored SUV idled outside, and I rushed through last-minute checks.
“Valeria, I’ll be back in exactly three days,” I told her. “Take good care of my mom. Her blood pressure’s unstable.”
She adjusted my tie, looking at me with perfect sincerity.
“Don’t worry about anything, my king. Go conquer the world. I’ll handle everything here.”
Relieved, I hugged my mother tightly, breathing in that clean, comforting scent of soap that never left her.
“I love you, Mom. I’ll bring you that French perfume you liked.”
“Go with God, my child,” she whispered, blessing me.
As I left, I saw Valeria hugging her—picture-perfect.
But the moment the gate closed, her mask fell.
Her smile vanished, replaced by pure contempt.
“Well, finally,” she muttered coldly.
My mother stared at her, confused.
“Listen carefully, you useless old woman,” Valeria said, stepping closer. “For the next three days, you stay in your room. Don’t touch anything. Don’t come out unless I say so. If you want food, serve yourself and clean up after. I am not your servant.”
My mother lowered her head, tears falling silently, and shuffled back to her room.
Hours passed like slow torture. Around noon, her diabetes began to affect her. Weakness, trembling, cold sweat. She needed sugar, water, her medication—things Valeria had supposedly promised to manage.
Finally, she forced herself out of the room and into the kitchen.
Her hands shook as she reached for a glass. It slipped from her fingers and shattered across the floor.
She gasped, terrified, kneeling to pick up the pieces. A shard cut her palm, blood dripping onto the pristine tiles.
Then the doors burst open.
Valeria stormed in, furious.
“You idiot! That was part of an Italian collection! It costs more than you earned in your entire miserable life!”
“I’m sorry… I got dizzy… I’ll clean it…” my mother pleaded through tears.
“Stop touching it!” Valeria kicked her hand aside. “You’re bleeding all over my floor!”
She grabbed my mother violently by the arm, nails digging into her skin, yanking her upright.
“You need to learn respect in MY house!”
She raised her hand to strike.
Meanwhile, twenty kilometers away, I was stuck in traffic when I realized I’d forgotten the original merger contract—an irreplaceable document.
Panicking, I ordered my driver to turn back.
Valeria didn’t answer her phone.
When we reached the house, I rushed inside, expecting silence.
Instead… I heard screams.
Not conversation. Screams.
My heart pounded as I ran toward the kitchen.
Then I heard the sound that shattered my soul.
My mother’s voice—broken, terrified, pleading:
“Please, Valeria, I beg you… don’t hit me anymore!”
Rage exploded inside me.
I kicked the kitchen doors open with brutal force.
And there it was.
My mother—my hero—cornered against the counter, trembling, arms raised to shield her face, blood on her hand.
And in front of her… Valeria. My fiancée. My “angel.”
Hand raised, face twisted with hatred, ready to strike.
Time froze.
She turned… saw me… and went pale as death.
“Neo…” she stammered. “My love… what are you doing here? You… you left…”
I couldn’t move. Everything I believed in—my perfect life, my pride, my happiness—collapsed before my eyes.
But worst of all…
The deepest wound wasn’t the betrayal.
It was that the person hurting the most sacred thing in my world… was the woman who slept beside me every night.
Chapter 3: The Silence of Steel, the Blood on the Floor, and the Echo of a Voice
The silence that settled over the enormous granite kitchen was suffocating — so heavy it felt like my lungs were being crushed. It was a thick, cement-like quiet. I could hear the low hum of the smart refrigerator and, above all, the frantic pounding of my own heart hammering in my ears like a war drum.
I stood frozen in the wrecked doorway, my chest rising and falling. The same hands that had just been holding a phone to negotiate multimillion-dollar deals were now curled into tight fists, my nails digging into my palms.
Valeria remained petrified. Her arm — the one she had been about to bring down on my mother’s face — slowly began to lower, as if she had just received an electric shock. Her honey-colored eyes, the ones I had once adored, were now wide with animal terror. She knew she had screwed up. She knew her entire performance had collapsed at the worst possible moment.
“Neo… m-my love…” she stammered. Her voice sounded grotesque, ridiculous. She tried to force a smile, but it came out twisted and pitiful. “W-what are you doing here? I thought… I thought you were already on the plane…”
I didn’t say a single word. I felt that if I opened my mouth, something inhuman would come out. My brain was still processing the brutality of what I was seeing.
My eyes weren’t on her.
They were fixed on my mother.
Doña Clara was still curled against the counter, trembling violently. Her eyes were tightly shut, waiting for the blow that never came. And as the seconds passed — as the expected pain failed to arrive — she slowly lowered her arms.
Blood ran from her wrinkled hand, dripping steadily onto the white porcelain floor, staining the scattered shards of crystal red.
I took my first step.
The sole of my custom leather shoe crushed the broken glass.
Crunch.
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