The front door opened without a sound, oiled just two days ago by my own hands.

On Wednesday morning, Rodrigo received a court summons served directly to his motel room door.

When he opened it, expecting room service, he was met by a judicial bailiff and two uniformed police officers.

"Rodrigo Mendoza?" the bailiff asked.

"Yes?"

"You are hereby served with a judicial notice of asset freeze, a restraining order barring you from the premises of Verde Norte Paisajismo, and a civil summons for the immediate repayment of 1.8 million pesos, plus accrued interest of 420,000 pesos, filed by Doña Elena Ruiz."

Rodrigo’s hands shook so violently he dropped the papers onto the dirty carpet. "Wait... interest? What interest?"

"Default interest, per Clause 8 of the original promissory note," the bailiff recited without emotion. "You have five business days to respond through legal counsel, or a default judgment will be entered against your personal assets, including your 50% equity in the residential property registered in your name."

The door closed. Rodrigo stood in the dim motel room, staring at the legal seal.

He didn't have 1.8 million pesos. He didn't even have eighteen thousand pesos. His personal account had a balance of 4,320 pesos, and his corporate card had been declined when he tried to buy gasoline that morning.

Panicked, he called his mother.

"Mom! Did you get a notification? Did someone come to your house?"

On the other end of the line, Beatriz was hysterical. "Rodrigo! There are men in suits outside! They put a legal seal on the front gate! They say you put my house up as collateral for the business credit line last year!"

Rodrigo felt the room spin.

Last October, when Verde Norte needed a secondary line of credit to purchase three commercial riding mowers, the bank had demanded a guarantor. Rodrigo, drunk on his own self-importance and confident that Valeria’s imaginary millions would arrive any day, had forged Beatriz’s signature on the secondary lien, telling himself he would pay off the balance before she ever found out.

"Rodrigo? Answer me!" Beatriz screamed into the phone. "Tell me this is a mistake! Tell me Claudia is just bluffing!"

"Mom... I... I had to secure the equipment," he stammered.

"You used my house?" Beatriz’s voice turned into a shrill screech that hurt his eardrum. "My home? The only thing your father left me? You miserable, worthless coward! You ruined us for that cheap whore!"

The line went dead.

An hour later, Rodrigo drove the company pickup truck toward Verde Norte’s warehouse in Tlalpan. He had to get inside. He had to take the high-end machinery—the commercial mowers, the industrial leaf blowers, the imported pruning shears—and sell them off-market to private contractors for cash. If he could gather two or three hundred thousand pesos in cash, he could flee to Monterrey, get a lawyer, and disappear until the dust settled.

He pulled up to the warehouse gates at noon.

The heavy iron gates were chained shut with a heavy-duty industrial padlock. Standing by the pedestrian door was Mateo Salgado, accompanied by two private security guards and a repossession flatbed truck.

Rodrigo jumped out of the pickup, leaving the driver's door swinging open.

"What the hell is this?" he shouted, charging toward the gate. "This is my company! Get off my property!"

Mateo didn't even flinch. He calmly adjusted his spectacles and held up a clipboard. "Good afternoon, Rodrigo. As of 9:00 a.m. today, the court granted an emergency attachment order on all commercial equipment. This property is now under the custody of the court-appointed administrator."

"I am the administrator!" Rodrigo roared, veins bulging in his neck.

"Not anymore," a voice spoke from behind him.

Rodrigo spun around.

A sleek silver sedan had pulled up behind his truck. I stepped out of the driver’s seat, wearing a tailored charcoal suit, my hair pulled back into a sharp, professional ponytail.

I looked at him—dirty, unshaven, smelling of cheap motel soap and desperation—and realized I felt nothing. Not anger, not sorrow, not even pity. He was simply a legal problem being systematically resolved.

"Claudia," he gasped, taking a step toward me. "Please. The bank is going after my mother’s house. You can't let them take her home. She’s an old woman!"

"She should have thought about that before she raised a thief," I replied. "And before she cheered on your mistress at her birthday dinner."

"I was stupid! I admit it! I'll do anything, Claudia! I'll work as a basic gardener for the company! Just drop the lawsuit, let me keep the truck, and call off the lien on my mother's house!"

"The lien wasn't placed by my mother, Rodrigo," I said, my voice cutting through his frantic pleas. "The lien was placed by Banco del Bajío because you defaulted on the equipment loan. You forged your own mother’s signature, Rodrigo. You did that all by yourself."

Rodrigo stared at me, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"The keys, Rodrigo," Mateo said, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. "The keys to the truck. It's registered under the company name, which means it belongs to the receivership."

"No," Rodrigo growled, backing away toward the driver's side. "No! You aren't taking my truck! I bought this!"

"With my mother's money," I said. "Mateo, call the officer."

From around the corner of the warehouse wall, a transit police cruiser rolled slowly into view, its blue and red lights flashing silently.

Rodrigo looked at the police car, then at the flatbed, then at me. His spirit seemed to collapse entirely within his ribcage. His shoulders slumped, his chest caved in, and with shaking fingers, he unclipped the key fob from his belt ring.

He dropped the keys onto the gravel.

"You're a monster, Claudia," he whispered with pure venom. "You never loved me. If you loved me, you wouldn't destroy my life like this."

I walked forward, stepped right past him, and picked the keys up off the ground.