The marble floors of the Belmont Reforma Hotel gleamed beneath the crystal chandeliers as Tomás Briones extended his credit card to the receptionist.

At 38, he still drew attention: tailored suit, confident smile, expensive watch. The woman on his arm seemed delighted with everything.

“This place is incredible,” Nadia whispered, adjusting her wine-colored dress that caught every glimmer of light. “I can’t believe we’re staying here.”

“I promised you the best,” Tomás replied, squeezing her hand. “Nothing less than the best for you.”

The receptionist, in her bottle-green blazer and with a perfectly practiced smile, typed some information into the computer.

“Welcome to the Belmont Reforma, Mr. Briones. It’s a pleasure to have you with us tonight.”

Tomás barely glanced back at her. He was too busy enjoying Nadia’s surprised expression and thinking about what would happen later.

His wife, Jimena, believed he was in Monterrey, at a business conference. As always, he had sent her photos of “meeting rooms” that were actually restaurants.

After twelve years of marriage, Jimena trusted him blindly. That trust had made his double life far too easy.

“Your room is ready,” the receptionist continued, swiping his key card across the counter. “I just have to tell you something: tonight the new owner is personally greeting the guests. It’s her first week running the hotel, and she likes to make a point of welcoming them.”

“New owner?” Tomás frowned, barely interested.

“Yes, sir. The hotel changed hands three days ago. It’s been very exciting for us. She should be here any minute.”

Tomás took the card impatiently. Nadia was already discreetly pulling him toward the elevators.

Then, a single word rooted him to the spot.

“Tomás.”

His name. Spoken in a voice he knew better than his own.

He turned slowly, his stomach sinking into the floor.

About ten paces away, standing in the lobby light, was his wife.

Jimena wore a navy blue pantsuit he’d never seen her in before, elegant heels, and her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. She wasn’t the woman in jeans and an apron who greeted him at home. Her face held the serene, firm expression of someone accustomed to being in charge.

“Ji… Jimena,” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”

She walked toward him calmly, unhurriedly, like someone arriving punctually for a pre-arranged meeting.

“I own this hotel,” she replied. “Since Monday morning. Didn’t I tell you I was making some investments?”

Nadia’s hand loosened on his arm. She looked at him, then at Jimena, her horror growing.

“Is she your wife?” “—she whispered.

“Yes,” Jimena answered, before Tomás could open his mouth. “I’m Mrs. Briones. And you must be Nadia Pérez, right? The marketing coordinator at Tomás’s company.”

Nadia turned white. vContinue reading…