Adrián stared at the passport in my hand.

“No.”

I blinked.

“What do you mean, no?”

“You’re staying here.”

“Camila stole files from my father’s project.”

“And you have an injured foot.”

“I can limp internationally.”

His expression darkened.

“Valeria.”

I dragged one of my four suitcases toward him.

“Perfect. I’m already packed.”

He looked at the luggage.

Then at me.

Then back at the luggage.

“You packed twelve pairs of shoes for a divorce.”

“I was emotionally distressed.”

“You packed three evening gowns.”

“I planned to suffer elegantly.”

For one second, the corner of his mouth moved.

Then his phone rang again.

His assistant spoke quickly.

“Sir, Miss Torres checked in twenty minutes ago. Flight departs in ninety minutes.”

Adrián’s expression turned cold.

“Book two tickets.”

I smiled triumphantly.

He pointed at me.

“You stay beside me the entire time.”

“Yes, President Montenegro.”

“And you do exactly what I say.”

“Absolutely.”

His eyes narrowed.

“That answer worries me.”

Three hours later, we were on the plane.

I had expected Adrián to spend the flight working.

Instead, he took my swollen ankle, placed it gently on a pillow, and covered me with a blanket.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“I’m wondering whether you secretly have two personalities.”

“No.”

“You insult me all day and then treat my ankle like a national treasure.”

“You’re imagining things.”

He opened his laptop.

I leaned closer.

“Adrián.”

“What?”

“If you actually hated me, would you divorce me?”

His fingers stopped.

Slowly, he looked at me.

“No.”

My heartbeat stumbled.

“Why not?”

“Because I married you.”

“That is generally how marriage works.”

He closed the laptop.

“For once in your life, stop talking.”

Then he turned toward the window.

But his ears were red.

I smiled into my blanket.

Cape Town was nothing like the ridiculous picture in my head.

No ostriches waiting outside the airport.

No people casually digging diamonds beside the highway.

Adrián discovered what I had been imagining and stared at me for a full ten seconds.

“Your education was expensive for absolutely no reason.”

“I studied fashion, not geography.”

“That explains nothing.”

His team found Camila’s trail quickly.

She had contacted a representative from Solberg Industries, one of Grupo Montenegro’s largest competitors.

The stolen files contained projections from my father’s renewable-energy project.

If Solberg obtained them before the bidding deadline, my father’s company could lose years of work.

For the first time, the problem stopped being funny.

I looked at Adrián.

“My father trusted me when I introduced him to your group.”

“I know.”

“If this destroys his company—”

“It won’t.”

“How can you know?”

He looked straight at me.

“Because I won’t let anyone destroy something belonging to you.”

The words silenced me.

Not your father.

Not our investment.

Something belonging to you.

That night, Adrián’s security team located Camila at a private business reception near the waterfront.

I was supposed to stay at the hotel.

Naturally, I didn’t.

When Adrián saw me walking into the reception in one of the evening gowns from my “divorce luggage,” he closed his eyes.

“Why are you here?”

“You said to stay beside you.”

“I meant at the hotel.”

“You should communicate more clearly.”

“You are going to shorten my life.”

“Then stop drinking coffee.”

He grabbed my hand before I could disappear into the crowd.

“Do not leave my sight.”

That was when Camila saw us.

Her smile vanished.

She was standing beside a silver-haired businessman.

A flash drive rested between her fingers.

Adrián’s entire demeanor changed.

“Camila.”

She took one step backward.

“President Montenegro.”

“You stole confidential files.”

“I copied documents I had access to.”

“Access is not ownership.”

The businessman beside her quietly moved away.

Camila looked at me.

Then she laughed.

“So this is because of Valeria?”

I raised an eyebrow.

She continued:

“You act as if she’s some precious treasure.”

“You complain about her constantly.”

“She’s noisy.”

“She breaks things.”

“She embarrasses you.”

I looked at Adrián.

“Excellent summary.”

He tightened his grip on my hand.

Camila smiled bitterly.

“You told everyone she drives you crazy.”

Adrián answered:

“She does.”

I kicked his shoe.

He ignored me.

“But there is a difference between being irritated by my wife and allowing someone to hurt her.”

Camila’s face stiffened.

“She has no idea how often you clean up her messes.”

I looked at him.

“What messes?”

“Not now.”

Camila laughed.

“Tell her.”

Adrián’s jaw tightened.

So she did.

“The fashion investor who tried to blacklist you two years ago?”

I froze.

“Adrián bought his debt.”

“The magazine that was going to publish those photographs from Ibiza?”

“He acquired the publishing company’s parent loan.”

“The designer who accused you of plagiarism?”

“He found the original timestamp records before your lawyer even knew there was a problem.”

I slowly turned toward my husband.

“You did all that?”

He looked annoyed.

“You were going to solve them eventually.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because then you would become unbearable.”

My eyes unexpectedly burned.

For years, I had interpreted his silence as indifference.

He never said beautiful things.

Never wrote romantic messages.

Never publicly bragged about me.

He simply stood somewhere behind every disaster, quietly preventing it from swallowing me.

Camila’s expression twisted.

“You see? She doesn’t even know you.”

Adrián looked at her.

“No.”

His voice became colder.

“She doesn’t know because I never needed gratitude.”

Then he held out his hand.

“The drive.”

Camila stepped backward.

“If I give it to you, you’ll destroy my father.”

“Your father’s company committed fraud using our investment.”

“That wasn’t my fault!”

“No.”

Adrián’s eyes hardened.

“But stealing from my wife’s family was.”

Security entered from both sides.

Camila looked around.

Her confidence disappeared.

Within minutes, the drive was recovered.

Copies had already been sent, but Adrián’s legal team had warned the receiving company that using stolen proprietary information would trigger immediate litigation.

By sunrise, Solberg withdrew.

My father’s project survived.

Camila’s father lost Grupo Montenegro’s investment.

And Camila herself became the subject of a corporate theft investigation.

Back at the hotel, I found Adrián standing on the balcony.

I walked beside him.

“You really never planned to send me away?”

“No.”

“Not even temporarily?”

“No.”

“What if I become extremely annoying?”

“You already are.”

I slapped his arm.

He caught my wrist.

Then his expression became unexpectedly serious.

“Why were you so ready to divorce me?”

I stopped smiling.

“Because I thought you didn’t want me.”

His grip loosened.

“What made you think that?”

I almost laughed.

“You call me a walking disaster.”

“You complain whenever I speak.”

“You say I have no common sense.”

“You once told me my cooking could violate international law.”

“It could.”

“Adrián.”

He became quiet.

Then, for perhaps the first time in our marriage, he struggled to find words.

“I thought…”

He looked away.

“That you knew.”

“Knew what?”

He exhaled.

“That everything I complain about is also everything I look for when I come home.”

My heart stopped.

He continued, almost irritated with himself.

“When the house is quiet because you’re away, I hate it.”

“When you stop calling me because you’re angry, I check my phone every five minutes.”

“When you travel, I sleep badly.”

“When you hurt your foot yesterday, I wanted to throw Camila out of Madrid before I even knew about the stolen files.”

I stared at him.

“So you love me?”

Adrián looked deeply offended.

“We’ve been married four years.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

His jaw tightened.

Then he pulled me toward him.

“Yes.”

One word.

No speech.

No flowers.

No poetry.

Exactly Adrián.

I smiled against his chest.

“Good.”

He looked down suspiciously.

“What?”

“Because I already tore up the divorce copy.”

His expression darkened.

“You had another copy?”

“Three.”

“Valeria.”

“I was prepared.”

He kissed my forehead and muttered:

“Walking disaster.”

Months later, my father’s project won the contract.

Camila never returned to Madrid.

And the four suitcases became a family joke.

Adrián still complained about everything I did.

I still ignored half of what he said.

But something had changed.

Now, whenever he called me noisy, clumsy or troublesome, I would look at him and ask:

“South Africa?”

And without fail, President Montenegro would immediately shut up.

Because I had finally learned something about my impossible husband.

Adrián’s mouth had spent years pretending I was his greatest inconvenience.

But every choice he made had been telling me the opposite.