Daniel, I imagined, would think he had won. He would think he had stripped me of my place, my dignity, my connection to Laura. He would think he had erased me from his life.
What he didn’t know was that the business I had helped fund from the beginning was still alive, still thriving, and that my name—Antonio Ramos—still appeared on the paperwork, a silent partner with a stake that was far larger than he could ever guess.
The Days That Followed
The next morning, I woke to the sound of the hostel’s kettle whistling, the water bubbling over the metal spout. I brewed a weak coffee, the bitter taste grounding me. I watched the city wake up through the rain‑streaked window, the streets glistening with puddles that reflected neon signs and the occasional passing car.
I spent the day walking the avenues, the familiar rhythm of my footsteps echoing against the cobblestones. I stopped at a small bakery on the corner of Via Roma, where the baker, an older woman with flour dust on her apron, handed me a warm croissant without asking for payment. “For you, Antonio,” she said, her eyes soft. I nodded, thanked her, and ate the croissant on the bench outside, the butter melting on the flaky layers.
