My sister stole the millionaire I was going to marry, but six years later, at our mother’s funeral, she discovered that I had won the real life.

I looked at him without surprise.

“I know.”

Daniel raised his eyebrows.

“How so?”

“Because one of the projects I designed in Barcelona… was for one of his companies. I detected irregularities and reported them anonymously. I never wanted you to know until it was unavoidable.”

Daniel looked at me with pride.
“So… you started all this.”

That night, Estefanía overheard a conversation. Her world began to crumble.

Days later, the news broke: Nicolás Álvarez, formally charged. Accounts frozen. Investigations open. Press coverage.

Estefanía came looking for me, desperate.

“You knew!” she shouted. “You were always just jealous!”

I looked at her calmly.

“No, Estefanía. I chose dignity. You chose glamour.”

She left crying.

But the final act was yet to come.

The scandal soon erupted.

For weeks, Spain’s business newspapers repeated the same headline with different wording: “Sevillian businessman under investigation for tax fraud and money laundering.” Nicolás Álvarez’s name appeared again and again, accompanied by figures, shell companies, and photographs from court records. The life of luxury he had flaunted for years began to crumble like a sandcastle.

I watched it all from a distance, without joy or resentment. Only with a strange, almost newfound calm.

One afternoon, while I was working at the architecture studio in Barcelona, ​​I received an unexpected call. It was Estefanía.

“Rebeca…” Her voice was unrecognizable. “Can we meet?”

I agreed. Not out of obligation, but because I knew that this meeting was necessary to bring closure.

We met at a discreet café, far from the places she used to frequent. She arrived without makeup, without jewelry, her back hunched as if the weight of her decisions had finally caught up with her.

“Nicolás is going to court,” she said bluntly. “The accounts are frozen. The house… it’s not ours anymore.”

I nodded slowly.

“I know.”

Estefanía pressed her lips together, holding back tears.
“I always thought you had lost,” she confessed. “That I had won the life you wanted.”

I looked at her calmly.

“No, Estefanía. I lost a lie. You mistook it for a victory.”

Silence fell between us.

“Will you ever forgive me?” she finally asked.

I took a deep breath before answering.

“Forgiveness doesn’t always mean going back to the way things were. It means letting go of the pain. And that… I’ve already done.”

She nodded, understanding that this was the only possible answer.

Weeks later, the trial concluded. Nicolás was found guilty. Fines, professional disqualification, a sentence that shattered his image as an untouchable man. The surname that had once promised me stability was now synonymous with scandal.