He Tried to Buy His Mistress an iPh*ne 17 Pro Max—So You K*lled His ‘Black Card’ Right at the Register.

You don’t cry when you see him. You don’t gasp or freeze the way people expect a woman to when she catches her husband in public betrayal.
Instead, you stand a few shops away, half-concealed behind a perfume counter, watching him hold a woman in a red dress like she’s a trophy he earned. You let the moment sear into your memory, because you’ve learned a hard truth: pain only wastes you when it has nowhere to land. Yours finally does.

Your phone is warm in your hand, almost aware of what’s coming. When he lifts his chin and orders, loudly and proudly, “Two iPhone 17 Pro Max. One terabyte,” you smile—not sweetly, but sharply. Like a secret being kept.

The Salamanca mall gleams with polished stone and quiet arrogance. Chandeliers sparkle overhead, and voices stay low, as if wealth itself demands reverence. Your husband, Damián, has always loved places like this. He moves through them like they were designed for him alone. The woman beside him—Giselle—laughs too brightly, like her laugh is something she borrowed. She keeps angling her phone toward the Apple Store glass, already composing the story she’ll post. You can almost read it: Spoiled again. And the irony is that she truly believes he’s the one providing.

You don’t step in.
You’re not here to beg or expose him with tears. You’re here to watch him worship the only god he’s ever trusted: power. The kind he thinks lives in his wallet, his name, his snap of the fingers. You watch him skip the line. Joke with staff. Pretend he owns the place. You watch Giselle touch the display phone like it’s a crown she’s about to inherit.