Two hours before my wedding, my mother returned from the hair salon wearing a hat, her eyes brimming with tears. My fiancé said, “It was just an accident; hair grows back.” I took off her hat, saw the ruin of her hair, and—right in front of everyone—picked up a pair of scissors… but no one imagined what I would cancel next.

By mid-afternoon, Mateo had arranged for an emergency medical examination for Mom to document the blunt-force trauma from Bruno’s assault. Simultaneously, I had an appointment at a private women’s clinic on the east side of Guadalajara to check on the pregnancy.

The morning’s terror had left me with dull, persistent cramping, and fear gnawed at my stomach with every step.

Mom sat in the waiting room while the obstetrician performed the ultrasound. The room was dim, filled only with the rhythmic swoosh of the monitor.

*Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.*

The sound of the heartbeat filled the quiet room. Tears sprang to my eyes, burning hot against my cheeks.

“The baby is strong, Lucía,” Dr. Ramos said with a gentle smile, wiping the gel from my stomach. “Eleven weeks along. But your elevated cortisol and blood pressure are dangerously high. If you don't eliminate the stress in your life immediately, you risk placental abruption. Whatever is happening outside these walls, you have to protect yourself.”

“I will, Doctor,” I whispered, clutching the printed ultrasound scan tightly against my chest. “I will protect this baby with everything I have.”

When Mom and I stepped out through the clinic’s private courtyard toward Mateo’s waiting SUV, a black luxury sedan screeched to a halt at the curb, blocking our path.

Adrián stepped out.

He wasn't wearing his wedding tuxedo anymore. He wore a designer leather jacket and dark sunglasses, though his face looked haggard and drawn. When he saw me, he rushed forward, ignoring Mateo, who was already stepping out of the driver's side.

“Lucía! Stop! We need to talk!” Adrián pleaded, holding his hands up in a theatrical display of contrition.

“Stay back, Adrián,” I said, keeping Mom behind me.

“Lucía, please, listen to me!” he cried, his voice trembling with false emotion. “Everything got out of hand yesterday! Bruno was out of line—I kicked him out of the house last night! And Camila… Camila was completely in the wrong! I was just shocked, I panicked! You know how my father is with public appearances!”

I looked at him, feeling an overwhelming wave of revulsion. How had I ever found this man handsome? How had I ever mistaken his shallow vanity for charm?

“You forged my name to steal my mother’s land, Adrián,” I said, each word dropping like lead. “You gave Camila nearly two hundred thousand dollars of my agency's capital. Did you panic when you did that too?”

Adrián froze. His face went pale, his practiced remorse evaporating in an instant.

“You went through my cloud files,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.

“I know everything,” I said. “Every cent. Every message. Every promise you made to your mistress while lying in my bed.”

Adrián looked around the quiet clinic alleyway, realizing nobody was watching. The mask dropped entirely. He stepped closer, his jaw thrust forward.

“Listen to me, you stupid girl,” he hissed, his voice venomous. “You think Mateo Morales can protect you? My father owns the judges in this district. That land deed is already in escrow. If you fight this, my father will bury your little design firm under fifty frivolous lawsuits until you don't have enough money left to buy bread. You think you’re smart? You’re nobody without me!”

Before he could take another step, Mateo materialized like a ghost, grabbing Adrián by the lapels of his designer jacket and slamming him against the side of his own luxury sedan with terrifying force.

The metal groaned under the impact.

“Listen to me very carefully, boy,” Mateo growled into Adrián’s ear, his forearm pressed against Adrián’s windpipe just enough to make his eyes bulge. “The financial audit has already been submitted to the State Prosecutor's Financial Crimes Division. The forensic handwriting analyst has already confirmed the forgery. You aren't taking her land. You aren't taking her agency. By Friday, you and your father will be fighting just to stay out of a federal penitentiary.”

Mateo shoved Adrián back against his car, adjusting his own cuffs with cold precision.

“Get in your car and crawl back to your mistress,” Mateo commanded. “Next time you approach Lucía, it will be in front of a judge with handcuffs around your wrists.”

Adrián gasped for air, glaring at me with raw, undisguised hatred. “You’ll regret this, Lucía! I swear to God you will regret this!”

He threw himself into his car and sped off, the tires smoking against the asphalt.

I looked at the ultrasound photo crumpled in my trembling hand.