Moral He threw me out of his mansion in the rain for being old and poor… but he didn’t know that that day he was signing the d.eath warrant of his empire.

His name was Héctor Salinas, a retired corporate lawyer. He lived in the house across from the Beltrán mansion. He had seen everything.

He took me to his home, gave me dry clothes and hot soup. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions. He simply listened as I, through tears, told him about years of silent humiliation.

“That man… Adrián,” Héctor said slowly, “is not as untouchable as he thinks.”

Days later, I learned that Héctor had been fired years earlier for refusing to cover up financial irregularities… irregularities linked to Adrián Beltrán.

What followed was not divine revenge. It was human justice.

Héctor still had copies of documents—hidden transfers, tax evasion, bribes. And now he also had a direct witness to abuse: me.

Meanwhile, Lucía began visiting me in secret. Adrián’s shoves were no longer just verbal. She was trapped.

Héctor submitted the evidence to the prosecutor’s office. Everything moved quickly.

One Monday morning, the mansion on Santa Eleanor Drive was surrounded by federal agents. Adrián was arrested in front of cameras, handcuffed, shouting that it was all a mistake.

Lucía, trembling, signed the divorce papers that very same day.

But something was still missing. Adrián had to face me.

Would he have the courage to look me in the eyes when his world completely collapsed?

PART 3:
The day I entered the courtroom, I wore no jewelry, no makeup, no elegant clothes. I carried something far heavier and more valuable: the truth. My footsteps echoed on the polished floor as I slowly walked toward the witness stand. Each step was a silent victory against years of humiliation.

Adrián Beltrán was seated a few meters away from me. He was no longer the man who barked orders from his mansion, nor my daughter’s untouchable husband. His suit was gray—cheap and wrinkled. His hands trembled. He avoided looking at me, as if my mere presence reminded him exactly who he truly was.

The judge called for silence.

When I was asked whether I recognized the defendant, I lifted my gaze calmly.

“Yes,” I replied. “He is the man who threw me out of his house into the rain, knowing I had nowhere to go.”

A murmur swept through the courtroom.

I told everything with precision. I exaggerated nothing. I left nothing out. I described how my daughter changed after marrying him—how her voice grew quieter, how the light left her eyes, how she learned to ask permission even to breathe.