Two years after my husband divorced me and married my best friend, I was hiding under the bridge, freezing cold, my clothes clinging to my body and my pride shattered, when a luxurious black SUV screeched to a halt in front of me; the rear door opened and, to my horror, my wealthy father-in-law stepped out, pale, his voice trembling as he looked at me as if he saw a ghost and muttered, “Get in the car, I was told you were de.ad.”

And, for the first time in a long time, I felt something close to purpose.

I called myself “Ana López” and dyed my hair black, wearing it in a simple bun. Ernesto kept his word: within a week I was on the candidate list of the agency that managed the domestic staff for Javier and Lucía. A widow supposedly from Valencia, with no family, discreet, experienced in cleaning and caring for large homes.

During the interview, Lucía took a few seconds to recognize me… or rather, to not recognize me.

She wore a beige knit dress and expensive sneakers, her blonde hair tied back in a high ponytail. She was still beautiful, but there was something new in the way she looked at people: a practical hardness, an impatience she had once hidden behind nervous laughter.

“Ana, right?” she asked, flipping through my fake résumé. “Have you worked with children?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, my voice controlled, neutral, slightly deeper. “In a house in Castellón. Two girls.”