His only real plan was to force me to sell the apartment he inherited from my grandmother in Madrid to cover his bills.

With Gutiérrez’s help, we legally blocked any attempt at a sale.

We also gathered evidence of the fraud Alberto had committed with his partner, Ricardo Sánchez.

The justice system acted swiftly, and within a few weeks, his entire world collapsed.

Two months later, Alberto no longer wore expensive suits and a winning smile.

He was hiding from creditors, while Ricardo faced lawsuits and embarrassing headlines. His mother, Lucía, ducked her head when we ran into each other in the Salamanca neighborhood, avoiding my gaze.

I, on the other hand, breathed freely for the first time.

Alejandro had not only protected me, but he also suggested I invest part of my inheritance in something of my own.

And so I fulfilled an old dream: I opened an art gallery in the heart of Madrid.

On opening night, spotlights illuminated the facade and a string quartet filled the music rooms.

Friends, artists, and critics milled around me. I was wearing an elegant dress and holding a glass of Rioja.

In the background, I saw Alberto.

His suit was wrinkled, his face tired. He tried to approach, but the security guards politely stopped him.

I looked directly at him and raised an eyebrow, pointing at the large sign hanging above the gallery entrance:

“This is my fortress. And no one will tear it down.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt peace. I was no longer the woman abandoned on a highway, nor the humiliated wife. I was Clara Martínez, mistress of my destiny.

And I understood a simple truth: sometimes you have to lose everything to regain your freedom.