Alejandro stared blankly through the grimy, reinforced window of the prison transport van, the world outside reduced to a blur of gray concrete and distant Andean foothills. The handcuffs bit into his wrists, a constant reminder of how quickly life could unravel. He was speechless, numb—until he caught sight of a familiar figure stepping out from the courthouse doors.
His old manager, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit despite the humid Bogotá afternoon, walked straight toward the convoy with purposeful strides. Alejandro's heart jolted. For the first time since the trial began, a spark of hope flickered back to life. Maybe this nightmare wasn't permanent after all.
"Once I get out of here, I'm divorcing you, bitch," he muttered under his breath, shooting a venomous glance toward Elena, who stood on the courthouse steps, her face pale and unreadable. *We had an agreement.*
Curiosity burning, Alejandro leaned toward the barred partition and called out, "What's the play here?"
The manager paused just outside the van, close enough that Alejandro could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "I always keep my word," he replied evenly. "Even when your father worked with us, I gave him everything I had. Loyalty matters."
The manager approached one of the uniformed officers overseeing the transfer. They spoke in low tones—friendly, words lost to the engine rumble and distant traffic. Then they shook hands, firm and decisive. Without a backward glance, the manager melted into the crowd and disappeared.
The officer sauntered over to Alejandro's side of the van, tapping the metal door casually. "Good weather today, eh?"
Alejandro's mind raced. "What the hell does that mean?" It could be code, a signal—anything, especially after that handshake. "Maybe I'm still in safe hands." He almost said it aloud, but swallowed the words.
The van lurched forward, tires crunching over gravel as the convoy pulled away from the courthouse. Bogotá's chaotic streets slid past, vendors hawking arepas, motorbikes weaving through traffic, the distant green of the mountains mocking his confinement. A hollow ache settled in Alejandro's chest. Had he married a woman capable of this level of betrayal? A demon who'd orchestrated his downfall with cold precision?
Elena remained rooted on the steps, eyes locked on the vanishing van until it turned a corner and was gone. Her hands trembled at her sides.
A gentle touch on her arm broke the spell. "Let's get out of here," Fred said softly.
She turned, collapsing against him. Sobs tore from her throat—deep, wrenching sounds that drew stares from passersby. Fred wrapped his arms around her, holding her steady as the world spun.
"I've lost him," she whispered against his chest. "Our only hope. We waited years for this baby… and now I won't even hear from him. No more of those smiles, that cheeky grin. I always felt safe with him. Protected. Now he's gone, and I—I'm thinking of ending it. Me and the baby. What's left?"
Fred pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "Don't. Don't say that. I'm here, Elena. I've always been here. Let's go home.
He guided her to his old Ford, parked haphazardly near the curb. The drive through Bogotá was silent at first—horns blaring, reggaeton pulsing from open windows, the city alive while she felt dead inside. Fred kept glancing over, worry etched on his face.
At her small apartment in Chapinero, he helped her inside, brewed strong tinto coffee the way she liked it—black, no sugar—and sat her on the worn sofa. He patted her knee awkwardly. "You could sell some of his things. The watches, the clothes. Auction them. Raise funds until this… settles."
Fred shifted closer, his knee brushing hers. "You still look beautiful, you know that?" His voice dropped, intimate. "Any man would be lucky. A man who actually stays. A man like—"
He leaned in. She felt the warmth of his breath before his lips brushed hers.
Elena jerked back. "Fred, no. I can't. I'm pregnant with his child."
Fred froze, eyes widening. "Wait. Alejandro... he got you pregnant? When—how long have you known?"
Elena stared into her mug. The steam blurred her vision. "I think I can handle it from here," she said quietly.
Fred stood to leave. As he passed the side table, his gaze caught on a framed photograph: a tall man with sharp, shining eyes and an easy confidence. He looked like an older version of Alejandro.
"Who's this?" Fred asked, picking it up.
"Alejandro's father," Elena replied, voice flat. "He worked at the Muzo warehouse for years. Emerald sorting, security—whatever they needed. Then one day he didn't come home. Weeks turned to months, months to years. We never saw him again. No body, no explanation. Just… gone."
Fred nodded slowly, setting the frame down. Muzo. The name carried weight in Colombia—emerald mines riddled with violence, disappearances that were never truly investigated. He filed the detail away, satisfied for now, and headed for the door. "Call if you need anything," he said before driving off into the fading light.
The apartment fell silent. Elena's phone buzzed on the coffee table. She answered with a shaky hand.
A male voice clipped.
"Could it be Gad?".
Everything's clear, "You need to move fast," he continued. "Get your hands on those papers.
Report back immediately."
"I barely know where to start," she hissed. "He never talked. Not a word about it, nothing. How am I supposed to—"
"I've given you enough time," the voice cut in, cold as steel. The line went dead.
Elena sat frozen, pulse hammering. Her eyes darted around the apartment—the cluttered bookshelves, the half-packed boxes from better days, the locked drawer in Alejandro's old desk that he'd always kept private.
From the kitchen, she grabbed a flashlight. The door to the bedroom creaked…