Page 158 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
Men always thought talking was the cure for everything.
As if words could fix the damage caused by other words.
I brought the glass to my lips again, taking another slow sip. The rum burned less now—either I was getting used to it or my senses were dulling in a way I didn’t fully trust.
Still, it grounded me.
“I would not share my problems with a stranger,” I said flatly.
Marcelo didn’t respond immediately.
I felt it before I understood it. Something had changed.
Then his tone shifted.
Not charming anymore. Not casual.
Sharpened.
“How is this possible?” he said, slower now, as if testing the words. “Rafael ‘El Mencho’ Pérez is unmarried. How can you be his wife?”
My entire body went still.
The glass nearly slipped from my fingers.
Cold panic struck instantly, sharp enough to cut through the alcohol’s warmth.
I hadn’t told him anything about myself—only that I was married, without ever saying to whom.
So how—
Before I could finish the thought, something shifted behind me.
Quick footsteps.
Too fast to be casual.
A sudden scuffle—fabric brushing against fabric, a sharp movement in tight space.
Then Ramiro’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.
“How dare you steal her phone? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
The words hit like impact.
My stomach dropped.
I heard movement—Ramiro clearly had grabbed something.
A phone.
There was a faint metallic clink as it was snatched back.
Then I felt it.
A familiar weight pressed into my palm.
My phone.
