I looked at him, truly looked at him, and for a fleeting second, his eyes met mine. There was no warmth there, only the expectation of a slave. “Of course, Esteban,” I said, my voice as calm as a summer lake. “I’ll get right on that.”
Instead of the study, I went to the safe hidden behind the painting in the hallway—a safe he had shown me months ago, arrogantly assuming I would never dare to touch his “assets.” I didn’t just take the documents I needed. I took everything. I had already arranged for a moving crew to arrive while he was at his afternoon therapy session the following day. I had already secured an apartment across the city, a place where no one knew the “nurse” who lived for her husband’s comfort.
The next morning, I arrived at the rehabilitation center as I always did, helping him into the transport van with a smile. I took him to his session, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “I’ll be back to pick you up in two hours, darling…”
