Chapter 2 – The Woman in the Kitchen

The screech of tires was the only sound left behind as goodbye echoed into the night. Sofía kept her hands firmly on the steering wheel, her gaze fixed on the darkness still draped over the city, as if hesitation no longer existed. The wind rushed through the half-open window, slicing through the silence inside the car like an icy blade.

And then—there, suspended between courage and pain—she did it.

She lifted a hand to her neck and, in a sudden, almost fierce motion, tore off the pearl necklace Isabel Castell had given her the day the engagement was announced. A symbol of belonging. Of respect. Of family. A memory that had felt like a chain for years.

The thread snapped between her fingers as if it had always been ready to break.

She rolled the window all the way down and, without thinking, threw it out.

The pearls scattered across the asphalt, struck the curb, bounced like disoriented tears, and rolled in every direction… except the one she was driving toward.

A shower of memories left behind—while she finally moved forward.

She didn’t look in the rearview mirror.

She didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t regret it.

Sofía Rojas wasn’t running away.

She had decided it was time to stop staying.

The kitchen was still wrapped in darkness when she crossed the threshold, barefoot, her clothes wrinkled from a sleepless night. Outside, the sky over the city was beginning to turn gray. The marble floor was cold beneath her feet. The coffee cup in her hands was no longer steaming.

Like her, the warmth was gone.

She wore an oversized white T-shirt—one of those that lose their shape over the years but cling to you through memory. The neckline slipped off one shoulder, exposing her collarbone. The pale blue pants fell softly against her skin, like a caress that didn’t dare to comfort her.

Seated on the stool by the kitchen island, she didn’t blink. Her eyes were fixed on the window—but she wasn’t looking at the garden or the sleeping rosebush.

She was looking far beyond.

To a time when she still believed she had been chosen.

The digital lock beeped—a brief, metallic sound. Almost discreet. Like a whisper of betrayal.

She didn’t move.

She knew who was coming in.

She could recognize his footsteps in a crowd. Adrián Castell walked in a way that needed no announcement—firm, controlled, arrogant even in exhaustion. His presence shattered the silence like a judgment.

When she finally looked at him, she noticed the long coat, the unbuttoned collar, the wrinkled white shirt. And that familiar expression—always the same after a sleepless night: furrowed brow, clenched jaw, eyes heavy with the weight of the world.

“Are you awake?” he asked, without surprise, his voice low and hoarse.

“I never sleep when you’re not here, Adrian,” Sofía said, without taking her eyes off the window.

He dropped his coat over a chair with a careless motion. He poured himself a glass of water without asking, as if the kitchen were just another hotel in his routine. He drank it in one gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and finally turned to face her.

“Valeria is sick.”

Sofía didn’t blink. She turned her head and looked at him with the calm of someone who had already heard everything.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Soft tissue atrophy. It’s degenerative. Irreversible. It’s already affecting her nervous system… the doctors say it’s only going to get worse.”

“And?”

“She’s staying here,” he swallowed, as if the air had thickened. “I’m going to take care of her.”

Sofía set the cup down on the island. Slowly, she stood up. She washed it, dried it carefully—methodically—as if she were putting away the last item before closing a house forever.

“Are you telling me Valeria is going to live in this house?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“She won’t bother you.”

The laugh that escaped her was short and hollow. Not real. The kind of laugh that comes from being tired of explaining the obvious.

“Like last night at the hospital?” she asked quietly. “When it didn’t bother me to watch the way you held her. When you spoke to her in that voice you never used with me.”

“Don’t do this.”

“What? Say out loud what’s already obvious?”

“This isn’t about you.”

Sofía looked at him then—not with anger, not with sadness.

With clarity.

“You’re right, Adrian. It was never about me.

Not when you signed the contract without even looking at me.

Not when you kissed Valeria while I was watching.

Not even when you came home burning with fever and I—” her voice softened, “—I took care of you as if it didn’t hurt.”

Adrián’s face tightened. The glass on the counter trembled under the pressure of his hand.

“Valeria needs me. That’s it. I’m not choosing.”

“That’s the problem,” Sofía replied calmly. “You never choose. You let life choose for you.

You even chose me by default. Because Sofía was easy. Because I didn’t demand. Because I didn’t cry.”

She shook her head.

“But not anymore, Adrian. Not anymore.”

She walked past him and stopped at the doorway.

“Yesterday, Valeria looked at me,” she said without turning around. “She spoke without making a sound.”

Adrián closed his eyes—just for a moment.

He always comes back to me. You can keep the last name. But Adrian belongs to me.

There was no response.

And with the same silence he had signed their contract, he confirmed it again.

“Thank you for confirming what I already knew,” Sofía whispered.

She walked down the hallway. She didn’t close the door—but something inside her closed forever.

That night, Sofía locked herself in the bedroom they had shared for years.

She lay down fully clothed, staring at the white ceiling—cold and sterile, like a surgical sheet.

She remembered Adrián defending her at school.

Don’t bother her. She’s going to be better than all of you.

She remembered the nosebleed during a game, when he brought her ice wrapped in his T-shirt.

She remembered the broken arm—and how he stayed beside her all day without saying a word.

And she remembered the kiss.

The first one he gave Valeria. Behind the classroom.

The moment he saw Sofía watching.

“I didn’t owe you that.”

From that day on, Sofía knew—Adrián’s heart would never have room for two.

She closed her eyes.

Not to sleep.

To decide.

She would no longer live like an echo.

She would no longer be the convenient doctor.

She would no longer share a roof with the woman who had always been her shadow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be the day.

Because even the quietest love has its limits.

And that early morning…

Sofía had just reached hers.

Adrián knocked on the door seconds later.

Three knocks. Firm. Uneven.

“Sofía,” he whispered.

Only silence answered him.

In the dim hallway, a memory struck him like a shadow scented with eucalyptus.

Last winter. A high fever. Early pneumonia.

She had wrapped him in blankets, rubbed menthol ointment into his back, checked his temperature every hour.

Half-asleep, he had murmured, “You don’t have to do this, Sofía.”

She had looked at him gently, expecting nothing in return.

“I know.”

The memory landed like lead in his chest.

Now, the cold wood burned against his knuckles.

And he knew—with the same certainty one feels when it’s already too late—

That Sofía was no longer on the other side of that door.