Chapter 2 - The House on Calle Hidalgo
By four o'clock that afternoon, the rain had begun to fall in heavy, steady sheets over Coyoacán. I stood in the grand living room of the house on Calle Hidalgo—a beautiful, sprawling colonial-style home with high timbered ceilings, handmade Talavera tiles, and a lush inner courtyard filled with bougainvillea.
This house had belonged to my family for three generations. My grandfather had built the fountain in the courtyard; my mother had planted the white rose bushes along the terrace; and I had spent seventeen years decorating every room to create a sanctuary for a man who didn't deserve to step foot inside its gates.
Two large commercial moving vans were parked in the driveway.
I had hired a team of professional movers to pack away every single item that had value to me: my grandfather’s antique library, my mother’s silver service, Sofía’s childhood mementos, my wardrobe, and the family heirlooms.
By six PM, the house was nearly stripped bare. Only Ricardo’s clothes, his expensive golf clubs, his framed business diplomas, and the heavy leather sofa he had insisted on buying three years ago remained in the cavernous living room.
My phone rang. It was Ricardo.
I looked at the caller ID, feeling no anger, no sorrow, and no urge to scream. I tapped the green button and placed the phone to my ear.
"Mariana!" Ricardo’s voice boomed through the speaker, laced with his usual performative anxiety. "Where the hell are you?! I just got up to my mom’s room and she says you abandoned her hours ago! She was crying, Mariana! Her blood pressure is through the roof!"
"I told her I had personal errands to take care of, Ricardo," I said coolly, watching two movers lift my mother’s mahogany dining table onto the truck.
"Personal errands?!" he bellowed, his tone dripping with righteous indignation. "My mother just had major surgery! What could possibly be more important than taking care of my family?!"
"Your family seems very well taken care of, Ricardo," I replied smoothly, adding a subtle emphasis to the words. "Is Elvira alone?"
"No! Laura is here now, but that's not the point!" he snapped. "I’m exhausted, Mariana. The company supplier issue is getting worse. I need to talk to you tonight about transferring that seven million pesos from your account. The bank is threatening to freeze our credit line by tomorrow noon if we don't post liquid collateral."
I smiled into the darkness of the foyer. There it was. The real reason he was so frantic. He was counting on my money to save his sinking ship. He had probably promised Daniela that once he secured my seven million, he would divorce me, buy her a condo, and live happily ever after with his long-awaited son.
"We can talk about the money tomorrow morning, Ricardo," I said in a gentle, reassuring tone—the same tone I had used for seventeen years to pacify his ego.
He let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief over the line. "Thank God. Look, I’m going to stay at the hospital for a few more hours to handle some... administrative things on the lower floors. Then I’ll go straight to an emergency dinner with the logistics board. I probably won't be home until very late. Don't wait up for me."
"Don't worry," I said, a dark amusement sparkling in my eyes. "I won't wait up."
"Make sure you leave the dinner in the fridge," he added carelessly. "I’ll see you in the morning. Have the bank tokens ready."
"Everything will be ready for you in the morning, Ricardo," I said softly. "Goodnight."
I hung up the phone and tossed it into my coat pocket.
Ten minutes later, Licenciado Arturo Bermejo arrived in his sleek dark sedan, accompanied by a notary public and a tall, imposing man in a tailored suit named Don Gabriel Rivas—the head of Rivas Real Estate Holdings.
We stood in the center of the empty, echoing living room.
"Mrs. Salgado," Don Gabriel said respectfully, reviewing the deed. "My firm is purchasing this property as-is for thirty-five million pesos, cash transfer, with an immediate occupancy clause. The funds have already been wired into your private trust at Banco Nacional."
"Thank you, Don Gabriel," I said, taking the pen from the notary.
I signed my name on the final line of the deed transfer. Mariana Salgado.
With three strokes of a pen, the house on Calle Hidalgo no longer belonged to me. It belonged to an international real estate conglomerate. Ricardo no longer lived in his wife's family home; he was now an unauthorized squatter in a commercial asset.
"Now," Arturo said, stepping forward with a thick manila envelope. "The divorce petition has been officially registered with the family court. We have also obtained an emergency ex-parte court order for the preservation of assets, freezing any joint bank accounts Ricardo might try to access."
"Does he know yet?" I asked.
"Not yet," Arturo grinned. "The court process server will deliver the divorce papers, the eviction notice, and the asset freeze order personally... tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM right here at the front door."
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"Perfect," I said.
I handed my house keys to Don Gabriel’s private security detail, walked out to my car, and drove away without looking in the rearview mirror. I spent the night in a luxurious suite at the St. Regis Hotel downtown, enjoying a glass of vintage red wine, a long bath, and ten uninterrupted hours of deep, peaceful sleep.
