Lucía shrugged.
“What narcissists do when they lose: shout, threaten, invent stories. But today we’ll request protective measures so he can’t harass you. And we’ll notify the homeowners’ association that you are the sole owner with access rights.”
As if the universe wanted to confirm it, my phone buzzed again—another unknown number. I opened it only because Lucía was beside me.
“I’m Dario’s lawyer. We need to speak urgently. There’s been a ‘misunderstanding.’”
Lucía let out a dry laugh.
“It’s not a misunderstanding. It’s a consequence.”
We left her office with a clear plan: formal filing, a demand for delivery of the penthouse, and a block on any attempt by Dario to sell or rent it. Meanwhile, Dario kept calling.
By midday, someone sent me a photo: Dario at the penthouse entrance, arguing with the concierge. His face was red, his jaw tight. The concierge was pointing to a notice: “Access denied by instruction of the owner.”
I looked at the image and, for the first time, felt something close to justice—not the satisfaction of humiliating him, but the relief of knowing he could no longer use my home as a weapon.
That afternoon, Lucía told me something that stayed with me:
“He thought he was breaking you. But you were just waiting for the right moment to let go of the rope.”
Dario’s attempt to regain control was so predictable it was almost pitiful. He texted from another number: “We can fix this. I’ll give you the keys back and we’ll leave it at that.” As if the keys were his. As if “fixing it” meant returning to his game.
Lucía handled everything. I wasn’t going back to that penthouse alone. On the day of the handover, we arrived with a notary, a locksmith, and the building administrator. It wasn’t drama—it was precaution. In Seville, new buildings have cameras, concierges, curious neighbors. This time, all of that worked in my favor.
When we arrived, Dario was on the landing, wearing an expensive sweatshirt and the expression of someone who hadn’t slept. Beside him stood an older man in a suit—his lawyer, Alonso Rivas—pale and furious.
“Mara, this is an abuse,” Alonso began. “You signed—”
Lucía cut him off, holding an open folder.
“You know perfectly well what your client signed,” she said. “And you know he signed it after exerting coercion. We have audio recordings, messages, and witnesses. If you persist, we’ll file charges for threats and coercion.”
Dario laughed, but it rang hollow.
“Coercion? I only told her the truth,” he spat. “She’s weak. She signed because she wanted to.”
I felt the urge to argue. To explain myself. But I remembered what Lucía had told me: in a conflict with someone like that, every word is fuel.
The notary requested identification. The locksmith waited. The administrator stared at the floor.
Dario stepped too close to me.
“If you take this from me, I swear you’ll regret it,” he whispered.
Lucía stepped between us.
