The apartment that had once been his elegant bachelor retreat now resembled a mausoleum of his failed ambitions. Bills piled up on the table, evidence of a life he could no longer afford.
100 euros for rent, 300 euros for condominium fees, 200 euros for electricity and gas, not to mention food, transportation, and telephone. His new salary of 1,500 euros vanished into thin air, like water in the desert.
His cell phone rang. It was Miguel Santos, his former lawyer, but now the voice on the other end sounded distant, professionally polite. “Damián, I have news about the apartment on Diagonal. The owner has decided not to renew the lease.”
Apparently, he discovered that the place was being used for non-commercial purposes. How did he find out? He received an anonymous phone call with very detailed information about the activities taking place there. Someone even sent him photographs.
Damian didn’t need to ask who had made that call. Cristina was meticulously closing all doors, severing all ties with her past life. Is there anything else? Yes. The suppliers for the Sarria construction project have started asking me for payments.
Apparently, there are invoices awaiting approval that require your approval. Or rather, Cristina’s approval. Damian closed his eyes. Even his former professional contacts had begun treating him like a middleman, not the decision-maker he thought he was.
Miguel, can I ask you a personal question? Of course. Did you know I’m not the owner of the company? An awkward silence filled the line. Damian, in the business world, there are signs.
The fact that all the bank contracts were in Cristina’s name, that the mortgages on the commercial premises were hers, that even the liability insurance was in her name.
These are details that only become apparent after years of experience. And why have you never told me about them? Because I thought it was a tax strategy, or that I simply preferred to keep things that way for personal reasons.
It’s not uncommon in young marriages for one spouse to have a better credit history. Damian hung up without saying goodbye. Everyone knew it, except him. He’d lived in a bubble of self-deception for years, believing himself to be the protagonist of a story in which he was merely a supporting actor.
Hurtado Renovation Office. 2:00 PM. The office on Montaner Street smelled of fresh paint and new beginnings. Cristina had decided to renovate the space, transforming it from the man cave Damián had created into a more professional and welcoming environment.
The walls were now ivory with sage green accents, and terracotta potted plants brought the space to life. Damian arrived from the meeting with the architects for the Gracia project, a folder containing the revised plans under his arm.
He found Cristina sitting behind the main desk, poring over invoices, her nine-month-old baby bump resting on the table. “The plans have been approved,” she said, placing the folder in front of her, “but they required two structural changes that will increase the budget by about €8,000.” Cristina looked up.
Her face had lost the paleness of the early months of pregnancy and now radiated a calm but determined energy. Are these necessary changes or suggestions? Necessary. Problems with the original plumbing that weren’t present in the old plans.
Approved, she signed the authorization without hesitation. One more thing. Damian sat in the chair in front of the desk, the same chair where clients used to sit when he was the boss.
Now he felt like an employee in the manager’s office. Cristina, I need to talk to you. I’m listening. I can’t continue living in Pedralves. With my new salary, it’s impossible to maintain that apartment.
Cristina put down the documents and gave her her full attention. “Have you found anything cheaper? There’s a two-bedroom apartment in No Barris for €700 a month. It’s close to the subway, but it’s in a neighborhood that’s not exactly where I imagined myself living at 36.”
For the first time in weeks, Cristina showed something resembling compassion. Damian, I grew up in No Barris. My mother still lives there. It’s not the end of the world. I know, I know.
I didn’t mean it was a bad neighborhood, just that she ran her hands through her hair. It’s hard to accept that your life is going backwards instead of forwards.
