I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and, without meaning to, I heard my husband whispering messages to his lover.
“Don’t worry, my love. By tomorrow, this 700-square-meter mansion will belong entirely to you.”
At lunch, my mother-in-law got a call from the hospital telling her that her son had been in a car accident. She and my father-in-law were instantly devastated.
If I hadn’t heard the truth with my own ears, I probably would have gone to my grave believing my husband was a decent man. But that night, in the eerie stillness of our enormous home, I heard his voice.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure she dies. The house, the money in the bank… once I’m rid of her, it will all be yours.”
The one saying that was my husband.
My name is Elena. I was thirty-two years old and worked as an accountant for a small company in the city. My husband, Javier, was three years older and owned his own business. It wasn’t wildly successful, but it did well enough.
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