“Everyone called me crazy for marrying a 60-year-old woman,” but on our wedding night I saw a mark on her shoulder, I heard “I have to tell you the truth” ad I understood that my whole life had been ad lie

—Eight months ago? And you still married me?

Celia lowered her head.

—I tried to push you away.

—Not enough!

“No,” she admitted, broken. “Not enough.”

I hated her for saying it so honestly, because it took away my comfort from simply calling her a monster.

—And the bodyguards?

—They’re for Octavio. He’s still alive. And if he finds out who you are, he can use you.

The phrase pierced me.

Not only had he let me fall in love, he had also, without saying a word, thrust me into the heart of a war he had been waiting for for twenty years.

“And my mother?” I asked, my throat tight. “The woman who raised me?”

Celia took a deep breath.

—She knew.

That answer ripped the ground out from under my feet.

-No.

—Yes. Her name is Rosaura. I entrusted your life to her one early morning. She was the only decent person near me at that time. She raised you to save you.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I grabbed my jacket, left my keys, left the envelope, left everything. I left that room as if the walls were pushing me back. I walked for hours until I ended up sitting at a roadside gas station, still in my suit, watching trucks go by and wondering how many times a man can break in a single night.

I arrived home at dawn.