From the outside, Samuel Valverde’s life looked complete.
At forty-five, he was a name associated with success, wealth, and influence, a man who had built an empire strong enough to impress anyone who glanced at the glossy magazines in his office lobby. Yet standing alone behind the glass walls of that same office, looking out over the lights of Madrid, he felt something he could not explain.
Emptiness.
It had been there ever since Sara died.
Losing his first wife had taken more from him than he ever admitted. Instead of facing the grief, he buried himself in work, filling his days with contracts, meetings, and travel that kept him away from home for weeks at a time.
His two children, Emilia and baby Miguel, were left in the care of Verónica, his second wife, a woman who seemed perfect on the surface. She was composed, attentive when needed, and appeared to offer the stability he convinced himself his children required.
Whenever doubt crept in, he silenced it with the same thought.
They were fine.
He believed that.
Until the night he stopped believing.
There was no warning.
No call.
Just a sudden, heavy feeling that something was wrong, something he could no longer ignore. He looked at the photograph on his desk, Sara holding their newborn daughter, her expression warm and steady, and for the first time in years, he felt as if she were asking him something he had failed to do.
