The message arrived on my phone while I was preparing dinner for Mateo. “Honey, I won’t be home for dinner tonight. I have an important meeting with clients that will run late.” I would have believed it, like the last twelve times, if I hadn’t seen the notification from his credit card on our joint account.
Reservation confirmed. Dielo’s Trattoria. 210 Air, table for two. I felt a pit in my stomach as I stared at the screen. My eight-year marriage was crumbling before my eyes in the form of a simple bank notification. I took a deep breath. My heart pounded as if it wanted to escape my chest.
I had two options: burst into tears or take control of my dignity. Angelo’s Trattoria, the Italian restaurant where Mateo had proposed, our special place, and now he was taking another woman there. It wasn’t hard to figure out who she was. Isabel Ramirez, his new executive assistant. I had seen her at a company dinner three months ago: tall, with perfect black hair, a calculated smile, and a way of looking at my husband that should have raised red flags from the start.
Photos together on the company Instagram, ambiguous comments, late arrivals home. It all fell into place now, like a puzzle of betrayal. What Mateo didn’t know was that I knew Isabel’s husband, Diego Méndez, a corporate lawyer. I had met him at the same company dinner. A quiet, kind man who spoke of his wife with admiration, a man who didn’t deserve what was happening.
My mother always said, “My daughter, dignity is neither negotiable nor given away.” And she was right. As I held the phone, something shifted inside me. I wouldn’t be the betrayed wife weeping silently. I wouldn’t be invisible. With trembling hands, I dialed the restaurant’s number. Angelo’s Trattoria. “How can I help you?” “I’d like to make a reservation for tonight, please.”
“What time, ma’am?” “9:10 p.m.” “Table, for how many people?” For two. And if possible, I’d like the table next to the reservation under Mateo Guzmán. Just a moment. Yes, we have table seven available right next door. What name should I make the reservation under? I took a deep breath. Lucía Hernández.
After hanging up, I called Diego. It took three tries. My pulse wasn’t cooperating. When he finally answered, my voice sounded strangely calm. “Diego, it’s Lucía, Mateo’s wife. Could you meet with me tonight? It’s important.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Sure, Lucía. Did something happen with Mateo? I’d prefer to explain it to you in person.”
“How about Angelo’s trattoria at 8:45? We have a reservation.” I didn’t know if I was doing something crazy. I only knew that tonight would change everything. Between the lump in my throat and the emptiness in my stomach, I also felt something new growing, a determination I didn’t even recognize myself. That afternoon, I dressed up like never before.
I chose a black dress I had saved for a special occasion. I applied my makeup carefully, highlighting my eyes, which Mateo had praised so many times, but which lately he barely even looked at. Each brushstroke was like armor I was building for the battle ahead. As I got ready, memories flooded my mind.
The nights Mateo arrived wearing a different cologne, the calls he took while avoiding me, the work weekends that had multiplied, the arguments over trivial matters he provoked to storm out of the house. It all made sense. “I’m leaving now,” he had texted me. “The meeting will be long, don’t wait up for me, stay awake.”
Each word was a stab in the back, each lie, a betrayal. I thought about our wedding vows, the plans we had made, the baby we had tried so hard to have without success. While Mateo blamed stress for our fertility problems, he was surely pouring all his energy into Isabel.
Diego was waiting for me at the entrance of the restaurant. He was wearing a gray suit. He looked tired, but smiling. He kissed me on the cheek as a greeting. “You look beautiful, Lucia, but your eyes say something’s wrong.” “Thank you for coming, Diego,” I said as we went inside. “I’m sorry I called you in so urgently.” “Don’t worry.”
Isabel also had a business meeting tonight. “I’m glad to have company.” I felt a pang in my chest. Business meeting. The same excuse. Both of us living the same lie from opposite sides. The waiter led us to our table, the famous table seven, perfectly positioned to see the entrance and table eight, still empty, waiting for the lovers.
Diego ordered wine for both of us while I tried to find the right words. “Diego, what I’m about to tell you is difficult.” I took a sip of wine to gather my courage. At that moment, the restaurant door opened. Mateo walked in, impeccably dressed, glancing at his watch. My heart stopped. Seconds later, Isabel appeared.
She was wearing a red dress I would never wear to a business meeting. They approached the reception desk, and the waiter
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