The first rain of the season fell unexpectedly, much like the mood of a woman who had just left the airport after a month of work in Monterrey. Mariana dragged her suitcase, her heart pounding with excitement. It wasn’t just because the project had been a success—though that also filled her with pride—but because she was finally going home. To Ricardo, the man who whispered “I love you” to her every night before she fell asleep.

Mariana unlocked the door with her fingerprint, her heart racing as if it were their first date. The two-story house was quiet, with a faint scent of freshly used floor cleaner. She had barely set her suitcase down when she heard hurried footsteps coming down the stairs.

“You’re back, my love!” Ricardo exclaimed, hugging her as if he hadn’t seen her in a year. He squeezed her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe, then beamed from ear to ear. “Let’s go to the bedroom! I missed you so much!”

Mariana laughed, snuggling into his shoulder. The familiar scent of his skin, his rapid breathing, the sparkle in his eyes… everything brought her peace. She nodded.

“Let me shower first.”

Ricardo pouted like a spoiled child, but finally agreed. While she showered, he put on soft music and prepared a glass of orange juice, which he placed on the table. Simple details, but for Mariana, they meant everything.

That night they cuddled as if they had never been apart. Ricardo whispered sweet words, and Mariana felt blessed. She knew that many women out there had to carry the weight of the world alone, but she had a man who supported her, cared for her, and made her feel loved.

The next morning, Ricardo got up early to make breakfast: fried eggs, bread, and an iced café con leche, just the way she liked it.

“Get some rest, love,” he said.

Mariana smiled happily. Maybe people said Mexican men weren’t very romantic, but her husband was the exception.

However, happiness is sometimes like glass: transparent, beautiful… but fragile.

Three days later, Mariana found a red hair ribbon under her pillow in her room. It wasn’t hers. She never wore that kind, much less that color.

She held it in her hand for a long time. She didn’t feel overwhelming jealousy or fury, only a deep sadness, like a melody slowly fading away. Because women have a sixth sense. She said nothing.

That night, as she rested her head on her husband’s arm, she asked softly,

“While I was away… did anyone come to the house?”

Ricardo answered without hesitation,

“No, love. No one came. Only me… and I swear I was counting down the days until I saw you.”

Mariana watched him for a few seconds. His tone was calm, too calm. She smiled at him, as if she believed every word, but something inside her broke.

That night she couldn’t sleep. In the silence, she could hear his slow breathing, the ticking of the clock… and the faint, almost imperceptible sound of the message that arrived on Ricardo’s cell phone.

She barely turned her head. The screen lit up: “I arrived safely. Thank you for everything, love ❤️”

Mariana’s heart clenched.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply got up calmly, walked to the bathroom, and looked at herself in the mirror. There she was: the same woman who had left for a month to work, dreaming of returning home… unaware that that home no longer belonged to her.

The next morning, while Ricardo showered, Mariana prepared breakfast: fried eggs, toast, and iced coffee with milk. Exactly the way he used to make it for her.

When he came downstairs, she smiled sweetly.

“Today it’s your turn to recharge,” she said, serving him his plate.

Ricardo smiled, delighted.

“Why so generous, love?” “Because I love you,” she replied, and she said it so softly, so sincerely, that he didn’t notice the small white pill dissolving in his cup.

They talked about trivial things: work, the neighbors, the rain. Until he began to feel strange.

“Mariana… I feel… weird…” She moved closer, held his face, and whispered:

“Rest, my love. You don’t have to lie anymore.”

Ricardo lost consciousness seconds later.

Mariana didn’t cry. She took his phone, unlocked it with his fingerprint—something she had learned to do months before—and looked up the number from the message.

The contact was saved as “Luz — cleaning.”
Mariana opened the gallery. Hundreds of photos.

And in every one… a young woman with black hair, wearing a red ribbon on her wrist.

She smiled, with a mixture of irony and calm. Then she dialed a number on her own phone.

“He’s already asleep,” she said on the other end of the line.

A woman’s voice replied:

“Perfect. Then I’ll go in through the back door, like we agreed.”

Mariana hung up. She took a deep breath and turned toward the door, where a woman with a red ribbon in her hair appeared silently.

“Ready?” the newcomer asked.

“More than ready,” Mariana replied, grabbing her suitcase.

As they both left the house together, the rain started again. On the floor, the spilled coffee was still steaming next to Ricardo, who was fast asleep at the table.

Mariana didn’t even look back.

She smiled and said,

“I told you the project in Monterrey was a success… but you never asked what kind of project it was.”