When Ainara got home Friday night, she couldn’t take it anymore. Three days of Andres avoiding her at the office. Three days of cold “Good mornings,” emotionless emails, and glances that treated her like a stranger. But with other women? Laughter, stories, compliments. And Isabella—silk blouse, perched on Andres’s desk like a scene from a soap opera every time she visited. They even left the door open for everyone to see. She kicked off her heels, tossed her bag onto the couch, and muttered, “I’m not letting my weekend go like this.” She changed into pajamas—Snoopy print, messy bun, no makeup. Comfort mode activated. In the kitchen, she started cooking. Garlic, onions, soy sauce, vinegar. Chicken adobo. No recipe, just instinct and irritation. While she cooked, she played a rom-com on her laptop—the kind with a brooding architect who was secretly sweet. She laughed at the absurdity. If only real life were that easy. She was eating on the couch, plate balanced on her knees, when
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