USA UNFILTERED

PART 1

The roar of the Airbus A350’s engines began to fade as the plane taxied smoothly down the runway at Terminal 4 of Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas Airport. After more than twelve hours of grueling negotiations and connecting flights from Frankfurt, the sudden silence in the first-class cabin felt almost deafening. I closed the book I’d been pretending to read for the past hour—a treatise on hospital management that my father used to quote as if it were the Bible—and smoothed out the invisible creases in my trousers.

My name is Catalina de la Vega. I’m 32 years old, and to the outside world, I’m the woman who has it all. I’m the sole heir of the late Don Alejandro de la Vega, founder of the San Rafael Medical Group, and I own 60% of the shares, giving me complete control over one of the largest and most prestigious private hospital systems in Spain. My surname opens doors on Serrano Street and closes deals on the most elite boards of directors in Europe.

But the world, with its superficial envy, fails to see the crushing weight that glittering title carries. Since my father’s sudden death two years ago from a rapidly progressing cancer, my shoulders have borne the weight of his colossal legacy. I’ve had to navigate a boardroom full of shrewd shareholders, old-school men who see a young woman and think “weakness,” while desperately trying to maintain the appearance of a happy family life.

This business trip to Germany had lasted exactly one month. An eternity. I had to personally visit factory after factory in Munich and Hamburg to negotiate the acquisition of a fleet of state-of-the-art medical equipment for our flagship hospital in Madrid. MRI machines, cutting-edge ventilators, technology that would save thousands of lives.

This was a responsibility that, in theory and according to the organizational chart, should have fallen to my husband, Marcos Torres, the man who currently occupies the CEO position. But I knew his capabilities—and his limitations—all too well. Marcos was handsome, charismatic, a master of public relations, and charming at charity cocktail parties. He had that “perfect son-in-law” smile that captivated high-society ladies. But when it came to the technical details, the sheer logistics, or haggling over pennies in a negotiation conducted in German or technical English, he was completely lost.

Out of love for my husband, and an almost pathological desire to solidify his position with a board of directors that regarded him with skepticism, I had agreed to take a step back. My official title was Director of Strategy, but in reality, I was the architect behind the scenes, clearing the path, managing every detail, major and minor, so that he could shine in the spotlight and take the credit.

A sleek, black car awaited me at the VIP arrivals terminal. The dry, stifling heat of the Madrid summer hit me as soon as I stepped out, bringing with it that familiar smell of hot asphalt and dry pine trees that, for anyone born here, feels strangely like a welcoming embrace.

—Welcome home, Doña Catalina—said the driver, opening the door for me.

—Thank you, Manuel. We’re not going home yet. Take me straight to San Rafael Hospital.

—Wouldn’t you prefer to rest, ma’am? It’s been a long journey.

—No. I need to see how things are.

I wanted to report the results of my trip to the board, yes. But, more importantly, there was a nagging feeling in my stomach, a knot that wouldn’t unravel. I wanted to see for myself how my husband had been running the hospital during my month-long absence. The video calls had been brief, his reports terse. Something didn’t add up.

The San Rafael University Hospital stood majestically in one of the most exclusive areas of the Salamanca district. The twenty-story building, a modern marvel of blue-tinted glass and steel, reflected the bright afternoon sun. It was the culmination of my father’s life. Looking at the polished sign with its stylized cross logo, a wave of pride washed over me, but it was mixed with that vague, inexplicable anxiety.

I told Manuel to drop me off at the main entrance, deciding to drag my own Louis Vuitton carry-on through the lobby rather than use the private executive entrance through the underground garage. I wanted to see the hospital’s daily operations through the eyes of an ordinary visitor, to hear the authentic sounds of this place, not the polished, rehearsed versions presented in boardroom briefings. I wanted to feel the pulse of my legacy.

The main lobby was crowded. The automated buzzer of the public address system called patients by number. Families murmured anxiously to one another on the comfortable waiting sofas. The hurried footsteps of doctors and nurses created the unique, chaotic symphony of a busy hospital. The faint, clean scent of antiseptic wafted through the cool, air-conditioned air.

I stood in a quiet corner near the reception desk, adjusting the lapels of my immaculate white pantsuit. I planned to observe for a moment before going up to Marcos’s office on the fifth floor to surprise him.

But my eyes froze at a scene unfolding in the center of the lobby, right where the main corridors intersected, beneath the great glass dome.

A tall man in white scrubs was kneeling on the cold marble floor. It was Dr. David Cienfuegos, Head of Cardiology, my old friend from medical school at Complutense University and the most indispensable clinician in the hospital. He was performing CPR on a middle-aged man who had just collapsed, probably from a hypoglycemic attack or a mild heart attack.

Sweat beaded on David’s broad forehead, trickled down his strong nose, and dripped to the floor. His movements were quick, practiced, yet full of gentle, focused care.

“Give us some space! Let the man breathe!” David’s deep, commanding voice boomed through the lobby, cutting through the general murmur. “Nurse, I need a glucometer and an IV, now!”

I stood there watching him in silence, fascinated. David hadn’t changed in fifteen years. He was the man who had spent his youth quietly caring for me, a brilliant talent who never cared about fame or fortune, only medicine. The day my father died, it was David who kept vigil by the coffin for three days and nights, organizing everything perfectly, making sure my mother and I ate, while Marcos was busy “networking” with the foreign dignitaries at the funeral.

Seeing the way he cradled the patient’s head, his focus so intense he seemed oblivious to the world around him, I felt a profound admiration. That was the image of a true healer, a soul shining brightly in a world often clouded by money and unbridled ambition. David was the heart of this place; Marcos was just the pretty face.

But this beautiful portrait of medical ethics was instantly desecrated by a black ink stain.

Just a few feet away from where David was saving a life, near the revolving doors that kept turning, a very young woman stood with her hands on her hips. Her shrill voice tore through the solemn atmosphere of the hospital like a rusty knife.

“Hey! What’s wrong with you, grandpa? I told you to park my Mercedes in the shade! Why is it out there in the sun? Do you have any idea how hot black leather seats get? You’re going to ruin my Loewe bag!”

She was a young woman of about 22. Her face was covered in a layer of makeup so thick it resembled a mask, and her lips were painted a garish shade of red. She wore a fuchsia pink dress so short and tight that it was grossly inappropriate for a medical setting, revealing more skin than professional decency allowed. Pinned to her chest, almost as a tasteless joke, was a blue intern ID card that read: “Tatiana Gomez.”

Across from her stood Enrique, the valet. Enrique is an institution at this hospital. A Legion veteran, a man of honor who has worked here since my grandfather’s time. His hair is now snow-white, and his back is slightly stooped from years of loyal service. He was lowering his head, visibly overwhelmed by the condescending attitude of a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.

“I’m so sorry, miss,” Enrique stammered, twisting his cap in his hands. “It’s been very busy with ambulances arriving. I haven’t had a chance yet. I’ll move it right now, I promise.”

Tatiana didn’t even bother to listen. She clicked her stiletto heel against the marble floor.

“Well, hurry up! You move like a turtle. How does someone like you get a job in a five-star hospital like this? You’ve completely ruined my morning! Useless!”

Having finished scolding the old man, Tatiana immediately pulled the latest iPhone model from her designer handbag, switched to the front camera, and her entire demeanor changed in an instant. Her frown transformed into a bright, cloying smile as she began to chatter away at the screen.

—Hey everyone! Good morning to all my amazing followers. Your girl Tati had a little run-in with some incompetent staff this morning—phew, what patience! But hey, for the sake of public health, I have to stay positive and pretty. Send me some love, guys! Hit that heart and share my live stream. We’re here saving lives… well, I’m at least making them look good.

I looked at my Cartier watch. It was 9:15 am

An employee, more than an hour late for her shift, dressed in blatant violation of the dress code, was standing in the main lobby yelling at an elderly colleague and live-streaming her personal drama during work hours. Blood began to rush to my face, a vein throbbing at my temple.

Was this the professional standard Marcos had sworn to uphold? Was this the face of the culture of “excellence and respect” that my father and I had worked so tirelessly to build? The stark contrast between the two scenes—David on his knees, his shirt drenched in sweat as he saved a life, and this empty-headed intern putting on a ridiculous show for social media—made it impossible for me to remain a silent observer.

I gripped the handle of my suitcase, took a deep breath to regain my composure like a leader, and strode decisively toward the entrance. The sound of my heels clicked with authority, but Tatiana was too busy staring at her own reflection on the screen to notice.

I walked over to Enrique and gently placed a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. He flinched, expecting another shout, then looked up. His age-weary eyes opened with recognition at the sight of my face. He was about to greet me as “Doña Catalina,” but I quickly put a finger to my lips, signaling him to be quiet.

I didn’t want my identity revealed yet. I wanted to see how far this little drama would go. I wanted to see the true nature of what was happening in my house.

I turned to the girl, Tatiana, who was still engrossed in making “duck faces” and posing for her phone.

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice calm but firm, carrying the kind of authority that’s inherited and honed in the best business schools. “This is a hospital, a place of healing and respect, not a fashion runway or a marketplace where you should be shouting at your elders. Besides, the workday starts at 8:00 a.m. It’s 9:15 now. You’re late, and you’re causing a public disturbance.”

Interrupted from her narcissistic reverie of virtual hearts and compliments, Tatiana looked visibly annoyed. She lowered her phone, her eyes narrowing as she scanned me from head to toe with a disdainful air.

I was wearing a simple but elegant white pantsuit, Italian-cut, with minimal jewelry. After a twelve-hour flight, my face was tired and pale, with little makeup. In the eyes of this striking young woman, accustomed to filters and excess, I was probably just the relative of some patient or some bitter middle-aged woman.

“And who are you to stick your nose into my business?” Tatiana scoffed, her tone dripping with contempt and that forced, posh accent I detest. “I’m reprimanding my employee. If you have nothing better to do, go find a seat somewhere else and stop bothering me. I’m trying to engage with my fans. It’s part of my personal brand, you know? Something you clearly lack.”

With that, she raised her phone again, rudely shoving the camera in my face. Her voice became high-pitched and squeaky, seeking the complicity of her unseen audience.

“Look at this, everyone. My day’s already been ruined by this bitter woman. Her husband probably dumped her or ignores her. Her life’s a mess, so she comes here looking for trouble. Poor Tati, getting bullied, even at work. Ugly people are so jealous!”

The girl’s insolence and audacity were beyond anything I could have imagined. My initial plan was a simple reprimand before heading to my office and having HR deal with her. But this level of disrespect couldn’t be tolerated. This was personal.

“Put your phone down. Now,” I said, my voice low and threatening, my eyes locked on his. “I’m asking you to respect hospital rules and people’s dignity. If you continue recording without permission and insulting people, I’ll have security escort you out and file a formal complaint. And believe me, you don’t want me to file a complaint.”

“Oh, are you threatening me?” Tatiana’s eyes widened, her heavily made-up face twisting into a mocking sneer. “How scary!”

Suddenly, she did something I never would have anticipated. She was holding a large plastic cup of iced coffee, half-finished. She pretended to turn around awkwardly, as if she’d tripped, but I saw the intent in her eyes. It was a calculated move. Deliberately, she crashed into me.

The entire glass of dark, cold liquid soaked my immaculate white suit.

The coffee spread quickly, soaking the haute couture fabric and dripping to the floor, forming a dark puddle at my feet. The sticky, icy sensation made me shudder. The strong smell of coffee filled my nostrils. This suit had been a gift from my father on his last birthday; it held immeasurable sentimental value. Now it was tainted by this petty, calculated act.

Before he could even react, Tatiana burst into theatrical sobbing. Her fake sobs echoed through the lobby, drowning out the PA system and drawing the attention of everyone present.

“Oh my God! What have you done?” she cried. “Can’t you watch where you’re going? You pushed me! You’ve ruined my beautiful dress!”

She sobbed hysterically while simultaneously checking her phone’s live stream to make sure she was in the frame. Her performance was worthy of an award for worst soap opera actress. Crocodile tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with her mascara.

“Everyone! You’re all my witnesses! This woman, some crazy relative of a patient, just assaulted a healthcare worker! That’s me! My baby gave me this dress. It’s a designer piece. It cost about two thousand euros. It’s ruined. How am I going to get this stain out?”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. People who hadn’t seen what happened looked at me with expressions of disapproval and pity for the “poor girl.” Some even pulled out their phones to record the chaos. “Rich people always taking advantage,” I heard someone mutter.

Seeing that she had the audience’s attention, Tatiana pressed her advantage. She took a step closer to me, lowering her voice to a venomous whisper that only I could hear, while maintaining her victim face for the cameras.

“You’d better apologize to me right now and pay for this dress, you old hag. Do you have any idea who my husband is?” Her smile was malevolent. “My husband is Marcos Torres, the CEO of this entire hospital. He has the power to hire and fire anyone here. You mess with me, and you and your entire family will find yourself blacklisted. No doctor in this city will ever treat you again.”

Hearing Marcos’s name come out of this brazen and vulgar girl’s mouth, I felt as if a knife were twisting in my gut.

My husband. Marcos Torres. The man I had implicitly trusted. The man for whom I had sacrificed my own professional visibility to support him. Since when did he have a young, arrogant mistress flaunting her power right here, in my sacred workplace? “Her husband”? The audacity was nauseating.

I looked at the coffee stain spreading across my suit, then back at Tatiana’s triumphant face. Instead of exploding with rage, I suddenly felt an urge to laugh. A bitter, hollow laugh. The situation was so grotesque it was comical.

Calmly, I took a silk handkerchief from my bag, wiped the sticky liquid from my hand, and then raised my head, my gaze as sharp as a surgical scalpel. The silence within me was the eye of the hurricane.

—You said your husband is CEO Marcos Torres—I repeated, making sure my voice was clear.

“That’s right. You’re scared now, aren’t you?” Tatiana smiled smugly. “Get on your knees and clean my shoes, and maybe I’ll ask him to forgive your little outburst. Perhaps he’ll even let you go without a lawsuit.”

Before I could answer, a tall figure stepped between us, forming a solid wall. That broad, familiar back belonged to David.

He had just finished with the emergency patient; the orderlies were already taking him away, stabilized. The faint scent of exertion and medicine still clung to his uniform. He stood there, a quiet mountain of authority. He didn’t need to shout. The calm, dignified presence of a veteran doctor and department head was enough to quiet the noisy crowd. Even the onlookers silently lowered their phones.

He looked at the coffee stain on my white suit, and I saw a flash of pain and suppressed rage in his dark eyes. Then he turned to Tatiana, his gaze becoming icy and sharp enough to make her shudder.

“Miss Gomez,” David said, his voice low and firm, enunciating each word with precise Spanish. “Why are you causing a disturbance in the main lobby?”

Upon seeing David, Tatiana felt a momentary nervousness. She knew David wasn’t someone to be trifled with. But she quickly regained her composure, confident in her “connection” to the CEO. After all, David was just a department head, an employee. “Her man” was the one in charge.

—Dr. Cienfuegos, you saw what happened. This woman pushed me, spilled coffee on the designer dress Marcos gave me. I’m broadcasting live to expose these rude and violent people to the public so everyone can see what kind of trash comes in here.

David didn’t even look at his phone. Calmly, he pointed to the large hospital regulations plaque hanging on the wall, with gold lettering on oak wood.

—Please read this aloud for me. Rule number one: Absolute respect for all patients and their families. Rule number three: Dress must be professional and adhere to the hospital dress code. Rule number five: Personal, business, and disruptive activities are prohibited during working hours. Now look at yourself and tell me how many of those rules you’ve broken in the last five minutes.

Tatiana was speechless, her face flushing with anger beneath her makeup. She stammered for a moment before replying:

“I’m a special case! Marcos said I could dress however I wanted to be creative! You’re just a contracted doctor! What right do you have to lecture me? I’m going to tell Marcos to fire you right now. You’ll end up putting bandages on in a small-town health center!”

Standing behind David, I listened to his words and felt the bitter irony of the situation hit me. So this was how Marcos had been indulging his lover behind my back, letting him run wild as if she owned the place. A mere intern dared to call the best cardiologist in Spain a “contract doctor” and use the CEO as a shield for her appalling behavior.

David let out a short, humorless laugh, a rare expression on his usually serious face.

“A contract doctor. You’re right. But I was hired for my skills, my integrity, and my knowledge to save lives. And you? What are you doing here? You’re cheapening the sacred profession of medicine, tarnishing the reputation of this hospital, all for a few virtual ‘likes’ and empty compliments.”

He took another step towards her, his imposing presence forcing her to instinctively back away.

“You claim to be engaged to CEO Marcos Torres. Let me tell you the truth, girl. A woman with an ounce of self-respect and class would never stand in public and flaunt such a sordid affair. And she certainly would never behave so rudely toward an old man like Enrique, who has more dignity in his little finger than you have in your entire body.”

David’s words were like needles piercing Tatiana’s fragile ego. Her face burned with shame and rage. The crowd’s opinion began to shift. The whispers were now directed squarely at the scantily clad young woman.

—The doctor is right. He has no class.

—Look at how she’s dressed. She’s a total gold digger.

—That poor lady in the white suit… you can tell she’s a decent person.

Finding herself isolated, Tatiana resorted to her final trick: playing the ultimate victim. She squealed into her phone, real tears of frustration now welling up.

“Everyone! They’re attacking me as a group! The doctors here protect each other and harass the weak! I’m alone! Marcos, my love, where are you?! Come save your wife! They’re going to kill me!”

David turned to me, his expression softening, his eyes filled with years of unspoken worry.

“Catalina,” he asked softly, using my first name with a familiarity few knew. “Are you really okay? Did the coffee burn you?”

I shook my head, managing a small smile to reassure him, even though a storm was raging inside me.

—I’m fine, David. Thank you for defending me.

I was about to say something else, probably to call security, but I gently placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. I felt the muscle tense beneath the fabric.

“Don’t get your hands dirty,” I whispered. “This is a family matter. Let me handle it. I want to see exactly who my ‘model husband’ chooses to defend in this situation.”

I looked directly at Tatiana, who was still shouting Marcos’s name as if he were her personal savior.

—Okay, do you want to call Marcos? I’ll help you. Let’s see how this little play ends.

With a calmness that contrasted sharply with the chaos, I pulled my own phone from my bag. The screen displayed 10:15 a.m. According to the detailed schedule my executive assistant had sent me, Marcos was in a critically important meeting with a delegation from the Ministry of Health and key investors from Singapore in the VIP conference room on the fifth floor. He was obsessed with his public image, always wanting to appear as a visionary and principled leader.

I searched my contacts for the name “My Love,” a name that once brought me warmth, but now made my stomach churn. I pressed the call button.

It played for a long time. He was probably in the middle of some long speech about medical ethics and strategic vision, things he’d learned by heart from me and my father.

Finally, he answered. Marcos’s voice was a hurried whisper, but he was still trying to maintain his usual fake tenderness.

—Honey, it’s me. I’m in a huge meeting with the Ministry and our partners. It’s really intense. Did you land safely? Why didn’t you let me know? I would have sent a car for you.

I didn’t answer her pointless questions. Calmly, I put the call on speakerphone, turning the volume up all the way. The lobby fell silent, everyone straining to hear, including Tatiana, who had stopped crying, confused.

“Are you in a meeting?” I asked, my voice cold and sharp like the winter wind in the mountains.

—Yes, a very important one. Honey, I can’t go out. Why don’t you go home and rest? Take a bath. Get some sleep. I’ll be home early tonight to make it up to you. I promise.

Marcos continued his act as the loving husband. I abruptly interrupted him.

—You don’t need to come home. You need to go down to the main lobby right now.

—What? The lobby? What for? Honey, I told you I’m extremely busy…

“I said get down here immediately!” I yelled, my feigned composure finally breaking down. All the pent-up anger and betrayal exploded. “Get down here and see your ‘new wife’ throwing coffee all over me! See her insulting Dr. Cienfuegos and threatening to throw me out of the hospital my father built!”

The other end of the line fell into absolute silence. A chilling silence.

I could just imagine Marcos’s face draining of all color. He must have gotten so flustered that he accidentally hit his own speakerphone button, or maybe the VIP conference room was so quiet that my furious voice had been audible to every official and investor in the room.

The sound of a chair being dragged noisily came through the phone, followed by Marcos’s stuttering, incoherent voice.

—C-Catalina… what are you talking about? Are you in the hospital? What new wife? Calm down, please…

At the same time, Tatiana, standing in front of me, began to turn as pale as a sheet. She recognized the voice on the phone. It was definitely her Marcos, the man who whispered sweet nothings to her every night. But why was this powerful man speaking to this woman in the stained suit with such fear and submission? Why was he calling her “darling”?

“You have five minutes,” I said. Every word was a sentence. “If you’re not in this lobby in five minutes, I’ll have my attorney, Mr. Arturo Vance, bring all the necessary paperwork directly to your conference room to discuss this matter with you and your partners.”

I hung up, without giving him a chance to reply.

The hospital lobby was eerily quiet. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner. All eyes were on me, the woman in the coffee-stained suit, radiating an unassailable authority, the aura of the true person in charge.

David stood beside me, arms crossed, a look of grim satisfaction and confidence on his face. I knew the real drama had just begun.

Tatiana was trembling, the phone almost slipping from her hands. She looked at me in complete disbelief, her red lips trembling.

—W-Who…? Who are you?

I looked at her and smiled, a smile that was both gentle and terribly cold.

—Why did you stop your live stream? Keep recording. Let everyone see how your “husband” treats his legal wife.

Those five minutes were the longest of Marcos Torres’s life and the final moments of Tatiana’s illusion of power. I stood there, back straight, waiting for the storm that was about to break over the traitors.

The atmosphere in the lobby was thick enough to cut with a knife. The crowd of onlookers, from patients to nurses, instinctively parted, forming a large circle in the middle of the floor, like a miniature coliseum. At its center stood David, Tatiana, and me.

Tatiana still hadn’t recovered from the phone call. She’d lowered her phone, not daring to point it at me again, though her thumb was still secretly on the record button. A tiny sliver of hope must have remained in her superficial, calculating mind. She hoped I was just some powerful business partner of Marcos’s, or at worst, the “boring wife” he was always complaining about. She still believed in his youthful beauty and the sweet lies Marcos whispered to her at night.

“No… don’t you dare try to scare me,” Tatiana stammered, trying to gather some courage, though her voice trembled. “Marcos loves me. He told me that even if you’re his wife, it’s just a title. Every man gets tired of his ‘old wife’ and wants something new and exciting… and I’m very exciting.”

I didn’t respond to his cheap provocation. I took out my phone and sent a short text message to Arturo Vance, my most trusted legal advisor and the man who kept all the family secrets.

“Arturo, bring File A to the main lobby. Immediately. It’s time.”

Arturo responded instantly: “Understood, Doña Catalina. I’m in the elevator.”

David moved closer to me, his solid frame shielding me from the curious glances and phone cameras of the crowd.

“Are you sure you want to do this here, Catalina?” he whispered. “It could damage the hospital’s reputation.”

I looked at him, my gaze unwavering.

“A tumor has to be cut out at the root, David. It will hurt once, but then it can heal. If I try to preserve any false sense of decorum, the hospital my father poured his heart into will be destroyed by them. Reputation is built on integrity and transparency, not on lies and cover-ups.”

David nodded, his eyes showing complete agreement.

—I understand. I’m with you no matter what.

His simple words were like a small flame warming my frozen heart. For fifteen years, he had always been there, calm and steady.

Meanwhile, on Tatiana’s live stream, comments were flying, but the tide had completely turned.

“Oh my God, who is that woman? She sounds like the boss.” “Looks like the real wife just showed up.” “This intern is about to get destroyed.” “This is going to get interesting. Waiting for the CEO.”

Tatiana looked at the comments, her face paling even more, but still tried to argue with the air.

“Don’t believe her, guys. She’s just a good actress. Wait until Marcos gets here. He’ll throw her out.”

The sound of an elevator arriving cut through the tension. The doors of the private executive elevator opened. All eyes turned in that direction.

Marcos stormed out, his expensive suit disheveled, his tie askew, his forehead glistening with sweat. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just run a marathon, completely stripped of his usual polished demeanor.

She took in the chaotic scene and her eyes darted around frantically. They landed on Tatiana, who stood there with a look of wounded pride. She froze for a second, but then her gaze met mine.

I stood with my arms crossed, staring at him as if he were some strange insect, and next to me was David, looking at him with undisguised disdain. Mark knew his reign was over.

Upon seeing Marcos, Tatiana clung to him like a drowning person grasping at a driftwood. She threw herself toward him, abandoning all her false pride, clutching his arm and whimpering.

“Honey, you’re here! Look, this crazy woman and that loser David were harassing me. He threw coffee on me and threatened to fire me! Call security and get them out of here. Tell them who you are!”

Marcos froze, his arm stiff beneath her grip. He stared at me, his lips moving, but no words came out. Fear was etched on his face. He knew better than anyone that the woman before him wasn’t just his wife. She was the Chairman of the Board, the one who held his destiny, his CEO title, and all the wealth he enjoyed in the palm of her hand.

“Marcos,” I urged, my lips curving into a smile that made him shudder. “What’s wrong, Director General Torres? Your beloved is crying out for justice. Aren’t you going to do anything?”

Tatiana, sensing Marcos’s strange hesitation, shook her arm.

—What’s wrong with you? Say something. Everyone’s watching. You have to show them who’s boss.

Marcos turned to look at Tatiana. The look in his eyes was no longer the adoration of a lover, but pure, unadulterated hatred. He realized that this stupid, arrogant girl had just lit the fuse of the bomb that would obliterate his career.

And then it happened.

¡Plap!

An explosive, high-pitched sound echoed through the lobby.

Marcos swung his arm and delivered a vicious slap across Tatiana’s face. The force of the blow sent her reeling backward, stumbling and falling hard to the marble floor. Her phone flew from her hand, skidding across the tiles, its live stream still running, capturing the ceiling and the sounds of the violence.

Tatiana clutched her cheek where the red, five-fingerprint was already forming. She looked at Marcos, her eyes wide with disbelief. She couldn’t understand what was happening. The man who just last night had sworn his eternal love and promised to buy her a penthouse on the Castellana was now hitting her in front of hundreds of people.

“Shut your mouth!” Marcos shouted, his voice cracking with fear and rage. “What the hell are you talking about, calling yourself my wife? I don’t know you! You’re crazy. Stop spreading these lies. Security! Take this lunatic away!”

The entire lobby gasped. The twist was shocking, brutal, and utterly pathetic.

Marcos turned to me, his aggressive demeanor vanishing instantly, replaced by an expression of desperate pleading. He clasped his hands together, his voice trembling.

—Catalina… darling, please let me explain. I honestly have no idea who she is. She must be some obsessive fan or some delusional person trying to get attention. Please, you have to believe me. You are my only wife. You are my life.

I watched his pathetic performance with a rising wave of nausea. A man who refused to take responsibility for his actions, who would throw his lover under a bus without a second thought to save himself. He was despicable.

On the ground, after a moment of shock, Tatiana exploded. The physical pain was nothing compared to the public humiliation. She realized she had been betrayed, discarded like a used toy. Her aggressive nature took over.

He screamed, throwing all caution to the wind.

“Marcos Torres, you dare hit me! Don’t you know me? Then who was in my bed at the Ritz Hotel last night? Who signed the papers for the apartment on Serrano in my name? You’ve been sleeping with me for months, and now that your rich wife is here, you pretend you don’t know me! You’re a pig!”

His accusations were like a bucket of ice water thrown in Marcos’s face. All his denials were now meaningless. The phone on the floor was capturing every word, every shout, and streaming it all over the internet.

“Shut up right now!” Marcos lunged at Tatiana to silence her, perhaps to hit her again.

But David was faster.

He stepped forward, grabbing Marcos by the shoulder and forcefully pushing him back. The strength of a surgeon who stays in shape easily overpowered a man softened by years of lavish dinners and excess.

“That’s enough,” David said coldly. “Stop making a fool of yourself. You’re dishonoring this institution and your family.”

I walked slowly toward Marcos. The click of my heels on the marble floor sounded like a judge’s gavel. I looked him straight in the eyes. All traces of affection were gone.

“You said you don’t know her?” I asked, my voice eerily calm. “Then why does she have an access card to your private office? And why did her bank account receive a transfer of 200,000 euros from your secret ‘investment’ account in Andorra last month?”

Marcos’s eyes widened in horror. He never imagined I knew about that money, the funds he’d diverted from the project to acquire the new MRI machines. He thought he’d hidden it so well through a series of shell companies.

“What… what are you talking about? I don’t know anything about that,” Marcos stammered, still trying to lie, even though sweat was running down his neck.

Just then, Arturo Vance emerged from the crowd, a thick folder in his hands. He walked beside me, bowed his head respectfully, and handed me the dossier.

—Mrs. Catalina, here are the complete bank statements, the purchase contract for the apartment in the name of Miss Tatiana Gomez, and the security recordings from the Ritz Hotel for the last three months, all obtained legally.

I grabbed the file and threw it at Marcos’s feet. The white pages scattered across the floor, exposing the naked truth for all to see. Photos, numbers, dates.

“Read it,” I ordered. “Read it and see exactly what you’ve been doing behind my back while I was working to save this hospital.”

Marcos looked at the scattered papers, his face ashen. He knew I was defeated. He trembled and collapsed to his knees, clutching the hem of my stained trousers, pleading:

—Catalina, darling… I was wrong. I made a terrible mistake. Please, for the sake of our ten years of marriage, forgive me. Just this once. I swear I’ll break up with her. I’ll do anything. I’ll be your slave. Just please, don’t leave me. Don’t ruin me.

The sight of the hospital CEO on his knees, crying and pleading with his wife, sent another wave of shock through the lobby.

“Oh my God. So she really is the President.” “The Boss infiltrated.” “This is better than Netflix.” “She deserves it. You cheating, thieving piece of trash.”

Tatiana sat stunned in the corner, watching the man who had been her ticket to a life of luxury pathetically slump about. She understood that her dream of being a tycoon’s wife had been shattered into a million pieces. Not only that, she was now facing legal trouble for receiving stolen funds.

I looked at the man kneeling at my feet without a shred of pity.

“Our ten years of marriage…” I mocked. “When you were stealing money meant to save lives to buy your mistress an apartment, did you think about our marriage? When you allowed her to insult me ​​and my loyal employees like Enrique, did you think about our marriage?”

I yanked my leg away from his grip, almost knocking him flat on his face, and turned to face the crowd of employees.

In a loud and clear voice, I made my statement.

PART 2

—I am Catalina de la Vega, Chair of the Board of Directors of the San Rafael Medical Group. And I am announcing that, effective immediately, Mr. Marcos Torres is officially dismissed from his position as CEO due to serious ethical violations, inappropriate conduct, and suspected embezzlement of corporate funds. All decisions made by him from this point forward are null and void.

My announcement fell like a judicial gavel, shattering the last vestiges of Marcos Torres’ dignity.

The lobby erupted in a chorus of murmurs that quickly escalated into open discussion. I saw triumphant looks in the eyes of the nurses and staff whom Marcos had bullied or ignored for years. I saw relief on the faces of the honest doctors who had watched the budget shrink while the CEO’s lifestyle inflated.

However, Marcos wasn’t ready to give up. The survival instincts of a cornered rat kicked in. He lifted his tear-streaked face, but his eyes held a familiar, cunning glint. He struggled to his feet, trying to dust himself off his knees and reclaim some of his former, self-imposed authority.

“Catalina, you can’t do this to me!” Marcos shrieked, his voice thick with a false sense of victimhood. “You can’t use some unverified bank statements to accuse me! That two hundred thousand euros was a strategic investment for the North Wing project. The paperwork just hasn’t been finalized yet because of bureaucracy. You’re misinterpreting everything out of jealousy!”

He turned to the crowd, raising his hands as if he were swearing an oath to the Constitution.

“Listen to me, everyone! I am CEO Marcos Torres. I have dedicated the last five years of my life to this hospital. I would never do anything to harm it. This is a conspiracy, a blatant setup orchestrated by my wife and her lover to take power from me.”

I watched his clumsy performance in silence. “An investment in the North Wing?” A pathetic excuse he’d concocted on the spot. Did he really think he could fool me and the law by blaming bureaucracy?

I didn’t need to say a word. Someone else stepped forward from the crowd, armed with a truth sharper than any accusation.

“An investment in the North Wing?” David’s calm, steely voice cut through the air.

He walked forward, holding a tablet that displayed real-time inventory data. He stood in front of Marcos, a head taller, his presence completely overwhelming. He held the tablet up for everyone to see, connecting it wirelessly to the large information screen in the lobby with a swift gesture.

—Mr. Torres, you claim you were investing in a new wing, but our asset management system tells a very different story. Two weeks ago, you signed the purchase of ten high-end ventilators and a next-generation MRI system from Siemens. This was at the exact moment the President was in Germany negotiating those same deals. The total value of the phantom contract was two hundred thousand euros. How do you explain that?

Marcos stammered, sweat soaking his designer shirt.

—The… the shipment is on its way. There are complications with customs. What do you know about international logistics, quack?

David gave a cold, contemptuous smile. He swiped his finger across the screen, revealing an email.

“I may not be a customs expert, but I can read German. This is a confirmation email from our supplier in Munich, received this morning. They confirm they have never received any payment from San Rafael for this order. And, of course, no equipment has left their warehouse.”

Another collective gasp rippled through the lobby. David’s evidence was irrefutable. He pressed on, his words like precise surgical incisions, stripping Marcos of his lies.

“You claimed the equipment was on its way, yet our warehouse is empty. You used the excuse of needing an urgent down payment to secure the order, embezzled the funds, and transferred them to a shell company in Panama, while Miss Gomez, here present, was suddenly able to purchase a luxury apartment for that exact amount. Did you really think Doña Catalina wouldn’t find out?”

Marcos was speechless, stumbling backward, his body trembling. He never imagined David was so well-informed. He had always seen David as a bookworm, obsessed with medicine and surgery, not as someone who would be tracking his financial crimes.

I looked at David with a new level of admiration. It turned out that, while I was away, he had not only excelled in his medical duties, but he had also been quietly protecting my family’s legacy. He had gathered all this evidence, waiting for my return to help me eradicate the cancer from our organization.

David turned towards me, his gaze steady.

—Madam President, as Chief of Cardiology and a member of the medical board, I can confirm that the lack of this equipment has already negatively impacted patient care. Mr. Torres’s actions are not just embezzlement; they are a direct threat to the lives of our patients. This is an unforgivable crime.

David’s final statement was the coup de grâce. Marcos sank to the floor, his eyes empty, all the struggle gone from him. The truth was laid bare for all to see. The lobby now felt like a public courtroom.

I knew this was the moment to restore order and reassert my authority. I stepped onto the small platform at the reception desk and took the microphone from a trembling receptionist.

“To all staff, patients, and guests present here today,” I said, my voice echoing through the large space. “What has happened here today is a source of great shame for San Rafael Hospital. On behalf of the Board, I offer my sincerest apologies to all of you for having subjected you to this disgraceful scene.”

I looked at the crowd, at the faces that were waiting for a change.

—However, we cannot allow the actions of one bad apple to discredit the tireless efforts of the hundreds of dedicated medical professionals who save lives here every day. To stabilize the situation and ensure that hospital operations continue uninterrupted, I will be taking the following executive actions.

The room held its breath.

“First,” I said, pointing to Marcos, still crumpled on the floor, “Mr. Marcos Torres is dismissed and stripped of all titles and responsibilities. Our legal department will fully cooperate with the District Attorney’s office to prosecute him for embezzlement and breach of trust. Security, please escort this man off the premises. And make sure he doesn’t take anything with him, not even a pen.”

Two large, burly security guards, former military men, moved immediately and lifted Marcos by his feet. He offered no resistance. His head was bowed in shame as they led him through the crowd toward the revolving exit, followed by a chorus of contemptuous whispers. The image of the once elegant CEO was now that of a common criminal.

“Second,” I continued, my voice softening with respect, “the CEO position cannot remain vacant. We need a leader with integrity, talent, and compassion to steer this ship through the storm. That person is none other than the man who courageously stood up for what is right today.”

I turned to David, smiled, and pointed at him.

—I am proud to appoint Dr. David Cienfuegos as Interim Director General of San Rafael University Hospital, effective immediately. I am confident that with his skill and moral compass, Dr. Cienfuegos will restore this hospital to its rightful place.

David was slightly surprised by my swift decision, but he quickly composed himself. He stepped onto the podium beside me and bowed his head to the crowd. Instantly, a roar of applause erupted. It began with the resident physicians and nurses and quickly spread to the department heads and even the patients’ families. The thunderous ovation wasn’t just for David; it was an endorsement of my decision. It was applause for justice served.

David looked at me, his eyes filled with gratitude and resolve. He took the microphone and spoke briefly but powerfully.

—Thank you for your trust. I promise to do everything in my power to build a healthcare environment that is clean, transparent, and puts the patient first. Thank you.

While Mark was being taken away and David was being celebrated, there was still one loose end.

Tatiana, the once arrogant intern, was now huddled in a corner, her face a mess of smeared makeup and tears. Seeing that attention had shifted away from her, she tried to slip away toward a side exit, but Arturo Vance spotted her. He signaled to security, who blocked her path.

“Miss Gomez, where are you going in such a hurry?” Arturo asked, his tone polite but chilling. “We haven’t even discussed the matter of the President’s dress or the reputational damage it has caused to the hospital.”

Terrified, Tatiana turned to me, her eyes pleading. Her dream of being a tycoon’s wife was over. Her only support system was either arrested or fired. She had nothing left but a mountain of legal troubles.

“Ma’am… I mean, Doña Catalina, please forgive me,” she whimpered, falling to her knees on the cold floor. “I know I was wrong. I’m young and stupid. Marcos manipulated me. He told me you were bad, that you didn’t love him. Please don’t fire me. Don’t sue me. I don’t have the money to pay.”

I stepped down from the platform and walked toward her, looking at the trembling girl at my feet. I felt no triumph, only a sad pity for such a misguided life.

“You say you were manipulated. Who threatened to fire me? Who yelled at an elderly veteran like Enrique? Who broadcast live boasting about ill-gotten wealth? Those were your choices, girl. You were blinded by greed and an illusion of power that was never yours.”

I turned to my lawyer.

—Arturo, terminate Miss Gómez’s internship contract immediately for serious misconduct. Also, prepare a report for the National Police regarding her role as a recipient of embezzled funds. That apartment on Serrano Street was purchased with money stolen from patients. She will be required to return every cent.

Upon hearing this, Tatiana completely collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably. She knew her life as an “influencer” was over. The luxury apartment, the designer handbags, the lavish trips—everything would be seized. She would be thrown back into a harsh reality, branded with a stain she could never wash away.

David approached. He didn’t say another word of reprimand. He took a small business card from his pocket and gently placed it on the floor in front of her.

“This is the card of a very good psychiatrist at the López Ibor Clinic,” David said calmly. “I think you need help with your personality disorder and delusions of grandeur. I hope that after paying the price for your mistakes, you’ll learn to be a decent human being before trying to be a famous one.”

David’s act, though gentle, was the most profound punishment. It stripped away her last shred of pride, revealing that she was not just a criminal, but a person with a sick soul. Two security guards came and helped Tatiana to her feet, escorting her out. Her cries faded behind the glass doors.

The lobby returned to its normal rhythm, but the air felt cleaner. The crowd dispersed. Doctors and nurses went back to their duties. The automated public address system sounded as if nothing had happened.

I leaned against the reception desk, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over me. The adrenaline rush was gone, leaving behind a deep, bone-deep fatigue. I had endured a long flight, a devastating emotional shock, and a tense confrontation. I had won, but my heart felt empty.

What was the value of this victory when the husband she had once loved revealed himself to be such a monster? The family she had fought to protect was now officially broken.

David approached me with an already opened bottle of water. He didn’t say anything, just handed it to me and stood in a way that shielded my face from the harsh sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Drink some water, Catalina,” he said gently. “You did well. Your father would be very proud of you today. You have his strength.”

I took a small sip. The cool water soothed my dry throat and the bitterness in my soul. I looked at him, my eyes stinging.

—David, I’m so tired. I thought I was strong, but this hurts more than I imagined. Ten years, David. Ten years of lies.

He looked at me with deep compassion, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. It was a comforting, constant touch.

“Of course it hurts. You’re human, not made of steel,” she comforted me. “But you were brave enough to face it and cut the cancer out. Now it’s time to heal. I’ll take care of everything here. Go home and rest. Arturo and I will handle the paperwork.”

I nodded weakly. I needed to go home, but not to rest. It was time to prepare for the next battle: the divorce.

Arturo Vance approached, still holding the file. He understood immediately.

—Mrs. Catalina, I’ve already drafted the contested divorce petition. With this evidence of infidelity and serious financial crimes, the judge will grant it quickly. Would you like to sign it?

I took a deep breath, gathering my resolve.

—Give me the pen.

I signed my name with a firm, unwavering stroke. That signature ended ten years of my life, ended the dream of a happy family, and opened a new chapter.

“Arturo, start the proceedings immediately. Freeze all our joint assets. I don’t want him to touch another penny. I want him to walk out of this with nothing but the clothes on his back.”

—Yes, Madam President—Arturo said, taking the signed petition with a look of deep respect.

I turned to David, a small, tired smile on my face.

—Thank you, David. I don’t know what I would have done without you today.

He smiled warmly, his smile illuminating his serious face.

“Don’t be strange. In his last days, your father realized what Marcos was. But it was too late to warn you without breaking your heart. He made me promise that I would always take care of you. A man keeps his promises.”

I looked deeply into his eyes and saw not just friendship, but a deep and constant affection that I had overlooked for so many years. But this wasn’t the time for that. I needed time to heal, and he understood.

I dragged my suitcase and left the hospital. The afternoon sun cast my long shadow across the pavement of Serrano Street. I walked with my head held high, leaving the ruins of my past behind me. Ahead lay a future full of challenges, but also full of hope. And I knew, for the first time in a long time, that I wouldn’t walk it alone.

---

The peace that followed the storm in the hospital lobby was simply the calm before the tsunami.

I had barely arrived home in La Moraleja, I hadn’t even had a chance to collapse onto my bed, when my phone started vibrating incessantly. It wasn’t a call, but a barrage of notifications from news alerts and social media.

I opened my phone to a barrage of sensationalist headlines and maliciously edited photos spreading like wildfire across Twitter, TikTok, and Facebook.

• “HEIRE HEALTH PROFESSIONAL ASSAULTS YOUNG INTERN IN A RIOT OF JEALOUSY”

• “THE TRUE STORY: UNFAITHFUL WIFE AND DOCTOR LOVER FRAME HUSBAND TO TAKE OVER THE COMPANY”

• “DRAMA IN SAN RAFAEL: CEO OVERTHROWN IN BRUTAL COUP BY HIS WIFE AND HIS LOVER”

Someone had downloaded Tatiana’s live stream and expertly edited it. They had cut out the parts where she scolded the valet, where she boasted and acted arrogantly. They only kept the clips of me looking stern, of David “aggressively” protecting me, and of Marcos kneeling and pathetically begging.

The clips were accompanied by thousands of hateful comments, clearly orchestrated by a professional troll farm.

“Look at that woman’s cold face. She’s a witch.” “Poor husband. She probably bullies him at home all the time.” “I heard she’s been sleeping with that doctor for years. This was just an excuse to get rid of her husband.”

I dropped the phone, a chill running down my spine. I had underestimated Marcos’s depravity. Knowing he couldn’t win with facts, he had resorted to scorched-earth tactics, using public opinion to destroy my reputation and David’s. He wanted to drag me through the mud with him, twist the narrative until I was the villain.

The doorbell rang. It was Arturo. He came in with a somber expression, another file in his hand.

“Doña Catalina, the situation on social media is deteriorating rapidly,” she reported. “Our IT department has traced the campaign back to a ‘Black PR’ firm in Eastern Europe. They are using thousands of bot accounts to attack the hospital’s official pages and your personal profiles. The funds for the campaign were transferred from an anonymous account, but I have no doubt that it’s the last of the money Marcos managed to hide.”

I sank into the sofa, massaging my throbbing temples.

—What do you want? Do you think this will get you your job back?

“No, he knows that’s impossible,” Arturo surmised. “He wants to pressure her into a more favorable divorce settlement. Or more simply, he wants revenge. Cornered people are dangerous.”

I took a sip of hot tea, forcing myself to think clearly.

“I won’t negotiate, not for a single cent. He chose to play dirty, and I’ll show him the price of angering a woman who has nothing to lose. What are your orders? Should we disable comments and issue a press release?”

I shook my head.

“No. The more we hide, the more guilty we’ll seem. Let them speak. The truth is all that matters. Gold doesn’t fear fire. Arturo, organize a formal press conference for tomorrow morning. Invite everyone: Antena 3, Telecinco, El Mundo, El País, and especially the online tabloids that are slandering me. I’ll confront them directly.”

Arturo nodded, his eyes filled with admiration.

—Understood. I’ll fix it right away.

That night, sleep was impossible. I wandered through the large, empty mansion, a home once filled with happy memories, now cold and silent. I peered into my children’s rooms. My two little angels slept soundly, oblivious to the storm raging around their mother. I vowed to myself that I would be strong for them, for my father’s legacy, and for myself. I would not fall.

The next morning, the main auditorium of San Rafael University Hospital was packed with journalists. Strobe camera flashes went off incessantly, the clicks of shutters creating a tense and suffocating atmosphere. Everyone wanted the exclusive on the billion-euro scandal.

I entered the room wearing a simple, conservative black dress, my face made up to look composed and composed. Beside me stood David in his familiar white coat, his presence calm and dignified. Our arrival commanded the attention of every camera in the room.

We sat down at the main table. I opened the press conference, my voice firm and clear.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the press. My name is Catalina de la Vega. I have called this press conference not to defend myself, but to defend the honor of San Rafael Hospital and its dedicated staff. The information currently circulating on social media is a malicious fabrication, edited with the sole intention of defaming.

A young reporter from a gossip show stood up, posing a pointed question.

—Ms. De la Vega, the public believes that you and Dr. Cienfuegos are having an affair and that you fired your husband to clear the way for your lover. How do you respond to that?

The room fell silent, waiting for my reaction. But before I could speak, David took the microphone. He stood up, looked directly at the reporter, then let his steady gaze sweep around the room.

“I’d like to answer that question,” David said, his deep voice carrying clearly through the speakers. “Regarding the relationship between myself and the President, I can confirm that we are old friends from medical school, trusted colleagues, and professional partners. There is absolutely no illicit affair, as the rumors claim.”

He paused, taking a breath, and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye for a second.

—However, I will not hide the truth. I have had feelings for Catalina for fifteen years, since we were students, through her marriage, and to this day. It is a love born of respect and admiration. But I have never crossed the ethical line of a friend or a doctor. I kept those feelings to myself so that she could be happy. But today, seeing her slandered by a coward, I can no longer remain silent.

David’s frank and courageous confession stunned the entire room. No one expected such a successful and private man as himself to publicly declare his unrequited love to defend the woman he cared for. The murmurs died away, replaced by looks of sympathy and respect. It was the gesture of a true Spanish gentleman of the old school.

David continued, signaling to an assistant to project an image onto the large screen behind them. It was a DNA lab report.

—As for the real reason Mr. Torres was dismissed, this is the evidence we withheld yesterday, hoping to grant him one last shred of dignity for the sake of his children. But he has proven he doesn’t deserve it. This is a DNA test confirming Mr. Marcos Torres’s paternity of a three-year-old boy currently living at the Los Rosales Children’s Home, an orphanage on the outskirts of Madrid.

The auditorium erupted in gasps. Every camera turned toward the screen.

—Mr. Torres fathered a child with another woman four years ago, long before he met intern Tatiana Gómez. After the mother died from an illness, he abandoned his own son in foster care to cover up his indiscretion. He has never visited or provided any support despite living a life of luxury. A man who not only cheats on his wife and embezzles from his company but also abandons his own flesh and blood… Does a man like that have any right to talk about morality or play the victim?

This revelation was the final blow that completely decimated public opinion. All suspicion against me vanished, replaced by a wave of intense fury directed at Marcos. The image of the dignified CEO shattered, replaced by the portrait of a cold, heartless monster.

I looked at David, overwhelmed with emotion. To protect me, he had exposed the deepest corner of his own heart. And he had quietly found that poor boy to help me turn the tide.

The press conference ended in a decisive victory for the truth. Subsequent news reports were a complete reversal, praising my courage and David’s integrity while fiercely condemning Marcos’s actions.

After the press conference, Marcos was completely ostracized. He lost not only his job and reputation but was also relentlessly attacked by the public. Friends who had once fawned over him now avoided his calls. The money he had managed to hide was quickly depleted by the fees of the public relations firm and his own lavish spending habits.

Desperate and broke, Marcos remembered the expensive gifts he had lavished on Tatiana: the penthouse, the car, the designer jewelry. He decided it was his property and he had the right to reclaim it to pay his debts and hire a lawyer.

He showed up at her apartment, the one my lawyers had placed under a lien but hadn’t yet evicted her from, drunk and furious, banging on the door. When Tatiana opened it, his expression wasn’t one of longing, but of pure contempt. She, too, was facing ruin, fired, ruined, and publicly humiliated.

“What are you doing here?” she mocked. “Have you come to ask me for money? I’m about to be on the street myself.”

“Give me back the car keys and all the jewelry I gave you!” Marcos shouted, bursting into the apartment. “It was my money! You have to give it back!”

“Your money?” Tatiana laughed mockingly. “That was the money you stole from the hospital. It’s evidence now. Did you think I was stupid enough to keep it and go to jail with you? I sold it all at a pawn shop to pay my fines and lawyers. There’s nothing left!”

Upon hearing this, Marcos exploded. He lunged at Tatiana, and a vicious and pathetic fight ensued. The sound of breaking furniture and screams filled the hallway, and the neighbors called the National Police.

When the police arrived, they found a deplorable scene. Marcos and Tatiana, their clothes torn and faces bruised, were fighting on a floor littered with broken glass. Both were arrested for disturbing the peace and assault.

The next day, photos of Marcos in handcuffs, his face swollen, sitting next to a disheveled Tatiana in the back of a police car, appeared online with the headline: “BITTER ENDING: DISHONORED CEO AND LOVER FIGHT OVER STOLEN FORTUNE THAT NO LONGER EXISTS.”

Reading the news, I felt no satisfaction, only a sad pity for lives ruined by their own greed.

A month later, the divorce proceedings began. Marcos sat across from me in court with a public defender. He looked ten years older, his hair streaked with gray. The judge reviewed the mountain of evidence against him. He pleaded guilty to everything. I knew he had no hope.

When the judge granted me sole custody of our children, he finally broke down and sobbed, perhaps the last fragment of his humanity surfacing. As he was led away to face his criminal trial, he walked past me and whispered:

—I’m sorry, Catalina.

I didn’t answer. An apology was pointless now. I turned and walked toward the sunlit doors of the courthouse. David was waiting for me outside, a warm smile on his face. The sky over Madrid was a bright, clear blue, heralding a new beginning.

In the aftermath, I poured all my energy into rebuilding San Rafael. With David by my side as CEO, we purged the corruption Marcos had left behind and revitalized the hospital’s mission. San Rafael not only recovered but thrived, becoming a beacon of medical excellence and integrity in Europe.

Marcos was sentenced to twelve years in prison for embezzlement and ongoing fraud. Tatiana, I heard, ended up working at a convenience store in a small coastal town, her dreams of fame and fortune reduced to the silent beep of a cash register.

A year after that fateful day, on a cool autumn evening, David took me to dinner at a quiet restaurant overlooking the Royal Palace. After the meal, he slid a small, elegantly wrapped box onto the table. Inside was not a diamond ring, but a stunning, intricately detailed crystal model of a human heart.

“Catalina,” he began, his voice filled with an emotion that spanned sixteen years. “I’m a cardiologist. I’ve spent my life studying the heart, but the one heart I’ve never fully understood is yours. This heart of glass represents my feelings for you: transparent, unconditional, and constant. I know you’ve been hurt, and your heart needs time to heal. Will you let me be your personal physician and care for that heart for the rest of your life?”

Tears of happiness streamed down my face. I gazed from my heart of glass at the man before me, the medical school boy, the brilliant doctor, the man who had been my anchor in the storm.

“Yes, Dr. Cienfuegos,” I whispered, smiling through my tears. “I will, but you have to promise me that this treatment plan lasts for life.”

Five years later, we stood side by side cutting the ribbon for the new “Alejandro de la Vega Wing” at San Rafael University Hospital, named in honor of my father. Later that afternoon, our family—David, me, and my two sons, who now affectionately called him “Dad”—strolled through the hospital gardens.

My two children ran ahead, their laughter filling the air. As we passed through a side door, I saw him.

A middle-aged man in worn clothes stood across the street, his hair completely white, his face marked by hardship. It was Marcos, recently released from prison on day release. He had nothing. No family, no career, no home. He just stood there looking at us with an expression of deep regret.

David squeezed my hand.

—Do you want to talk to him?

I watched Marcos for a long moment, then shook my head. The anger and hatred had long since vanished, replaced by a quiet indifference. The past was the past. Stirring it up would only disturb the beautiful peace we had worked so hard to build.

“No,” I said, turning to my family with a radiant smile. “Let’s go home. The children are hungry, and you promised to make paella today.”

I took David’s hand, and without looking back, we walked toward the warm Madrid sunset. I understood then that the best revenge isn’t crushing your enemies, but building a life so full of happiness and light that their darkness can no longer touch you.

And I, Catalina de la Vega, had done exactly that.