Chapter 4 - The Changing of the Locks
The autumn air outside was sharp and cold, biting against my exposed skin as I stepped out onto Calle de Serrano. The police car carrying Javier had already departed for the Moratalaz detention center. The flashing blue lights had faded into the amber glow of Madrid’s streetlamps.
I hailed a taxi, sliding into the back seat of the warm vehicle.
"Calle de Velázquez, please," I told the driver.
As the car wound through the elegant grid of the Salamanca district, I didn't waste a single second on tears. The time for sorrow had passed years ago, buried beneath layers of passive-aggressive holiday dinners, belittling remarks, and Javier’s growing sense of entitlement.
I unlocked my phone and dialed a 24-hour locksmith service I kept saved for emergencies.
"Cerrajeros Madrid 24 Horas? I need an immediate lock replacement for an apartment on Calle de Velázquez. High-security cylinder. I need you there in fifteen minutes."
Next, I opened my banking applications. With steady fingers, I navigated to the secondary cards issued on my primary credit accounts. Card ending in 4102: *Javier Rivas*. Status: **Cancelled**. Supplementary account for household debit: **Transferred to personal vault**. Daily transfer limit on his tied account: **Zero**.
For years, Javier had enjoyed the illusion of wealth by using cards tethered to my high-yield asset portfolios. Because my salary was triple his erratic commissions, he had grown comfortable treating my balance as an infinite reservoir. When his mother demanded lavish dinners or weekend trips to Biarritz, he simply swiped my cards, reassuring me that his big corporate restructuring deals would materialize next quarter.
They never did.
The taxi dropped me off in front of our stately nineteenth-century building. I took the ornate ironwork lift up to the fourth floor. The apartment was vast—two hundred and eighty square meters of high ceilings, herringbone parquet, and French balconies.
It was my apartment.
I had purchased it three years before I ever met Javier, using the proceeds from the sale of a fintech logistics startup I had co-founded in my late twenties. When we married, my lawyer had insisted on an absolute separation of goods under Spanish civil law (*separación de bienes*). Javier had pouted at the time, claiming it lacked romance, but his mother had sneeringly agreed, believing at the time that the Rivas family fortune needed protection from me.
How delicious the irony felt now.
Twenty minutes later, the locksmith was kneeling before the heavy oak door, drilling out the old cylinder and installing a high-security anti-bumping system with five brand-new, laser-cut keys.
"All set, Señora," the locksmith said, handing me the sleek metal keys. "Nobody is getting through this door without one of these."
I tipped him generously, locked the door from the inside, and turned the deadbolt twice. The heavy metallic *clack* echoed down the quiet hallway like the drop of a portcullis.
May you like
I walked into the master bedroom, took off the wine-soaked silk dress, and tossed it into the incinerator bin on the terrace. Then, I pulled two heavy Samsonite suitcases from the storage closet, marched into Javier’s walk-in wardrobe, and began stripping the hangers.
***
