Chapter 23
“How long have you been with that woman?!”
The question explodes in the living room with such force that it seems to hang in the air even after the words have been spoken.
Martina stands in the center of the room, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling irregularly, as if the effort of holding onto what she has just discovered is almost unbearable.
Her heart is pounding against her ribs so hard she fears Julia might hear it.
The party is over.
Just half an hour ago, the apartment was filled with voices, music, and laughter mingling with the clinking of glasses and the constant murmur of conversation.
Now, however, silence reigns in every corner of the living room—an almost tangible silence that has clung to her skin like a layer of sweat.
The open bottles remain on the table, some still with traces of red wine at the bottom.
The half-empty plates, the crumpled napkins, a forgotten glass next to the sofa with a lipstick mark on the rim.
The remnants of a celebration that, suddenly, seems to have taken place in another life, in a much more innocent version of the two of them.
Julia stands in front of her, near the dining table.
Her posture is stiff, and her eyes are fixed on Martina with a weariness that Martina doesn’t recall ever seeing so clearly before.
That gaze pierces her, strips her bare, and for a moment, she feels that Julia has already won this battle before she’s even begun to fight.
“I can’t believe you did this, especially on a day like today,” Martina continues, feeling the rage rise up through her chest again in scorching waves. “Do I mean so little to you that you couldn’t even wait until the guests had left?”
Julia lifts her chin slightly, a gesture she has always used to defend her territory. The light from the ceiling lamp illuminates her face from above, accentuating the shadows beneath her cheekbones and making her eyes seem darker, more impenetrable.
“Are you really going to be the one to reproach me, Martina?” she replies with a cold calm that is almost more hurtful than any shout. Each syllable falls like a drop of ice on Martina’s burning skin.
Martina falls silent. She watches her. There is something different in Julia’s eyes tonight.
Something that takes Martina a few seconds to identify.
As if Julia knows much more than she is saying, as if she has been keeping that card up her sleeve for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment to play it.
Julia puts her hands on her hips and begins to walk slowly across the living room, as if she needs to move to sort out the thoughts racing through her head.
Her heels echo on the floor, a sharp rhythm marking the pace of her growing irritation.
For a few seconds, she says nothing. The sound of her footsteps fills the room, amplified by the emptiness left behind by the party.
Finally, she stops in front of Martina, so close that she can feel the heat radiating from her body and the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the wine they’ve been drinking.
“I admit I haven’t been the best in this marriage,” Julia says with a calmness that seems carefully constructed, as if she’d rehearsed the line in front of the mirror.
“That I’ve probably never given you what you were looking for.
” She pauses briefly. Her eyes harden, turning into two shards.
“But don’t you dare disrespect me when you’ve been seeing Rebeca ever since she arrived. Or do you take me for a fool?”
The words hit Martina like an unexpected slap. She feels the heat rising from her neck to her cheeks and can already feel her pulse throbbing in her temples.
“How long have you been with her, Julia?” Martina insists. “Tell me. I want to hear it from you.”
Julia takes a few seconds to answer. She stares at her with that intensity she’s always known how to use as a weapon.
“Long enough to realize that you were never fair to me,” she finally replies, and there’s a hint of pain in her voice that Martina didn’t expect.
“Rebeca didn’t even want to know what really happened.
She chose her pride over your relationship.
And you? You chose to keep pretending everything was fine while you were still married to me, until you ended up sleeping with her behind my back. ”
Rebeca’s name, spoken in that context, triggers an immediate reaction in Martina. A knot forms in her stomach, a mixture of guilt, desire, and rage.
“And what do you know about that, Julia?” She takes a step toward her, closing the distance even further. “You have no idea what happened with that leak. Not the faintest idea.”
But the moment she utters those words, something in Julia’s expression changes. A barely perceptible shadow crosses her face. A glance that drifts for a fraction of a second toward the floor, as if she had revealed more than she intended at that moment.
And suddenly Martina understands. She stares at her, searching her eyes for the confirmation she doesn’t want to find.
“Wait…” Martina’s voice comes out lower, almost a whisper that breaks between her lips. “No…”
Julia doesn’t answer. And that silence confirms what Martina is beginning to suspect with terrifying clarity.
“You must be joking…” she murmurs. Disbelief slowly turns into a mixture of fury and bewilderment that burns her throat. “You?”
Julia crosses her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture that fails to hide the slight tremor in her hands.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that. I proved to you that I loved you more than anything,” she retorts, her voice now trembling for real, heavy with memories and pain.
“I supported you when you went to Milan, even though that meant staying here alone for months. And I followed you here when you got the offer from the magazine, leaving behind my life, my career, everything. And this is how you repay me?”
Martina lets out a laugh, devoid of joy, that sounds more like a gasp laden with bitterness.
“An offer you’ve benefited from too, haven’t you? Don’t pretend you sacrificed yourself just for me, Julia. You’ve always known how to take advantage of situations.”
The words make Julia clench her fists so tightly that her nails dig into her palms.
“You’re a manipulative bitch, Julia,” Martina blurts out before she can stop herself. “I don’t know how I could have married you. How I could have believed this would work.”
Julia stares at her for a long moment. She doesn’t seem surprised. There’s a resigned sadness in her gaze that, for a second, leaves Martina paralyzed.
“Because you loved me,” she replies in a strangely calm voice. “Even if you couldn’t see it. Even if you always compared our relationship to what you had with her.”
Martina shakes her head. The feeling that the ground beneath her feet has lost its firmness grows increasingly intense, as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff.
“No. I loved the Julia who was our friend. The one I met years ago. The one who was part of that small circle of complicity we shared with Rebeca. The one who seemed to understand me without needing explanations.” Martina swallows, trying to hold back the lump in her throat.
“Not this version… cold and calculating, who doesn’t care about anything… ”
The sentence trails off into the air. Martina runs a hand through her hair, ruffling it with a nervous gesture. She feels the exhaustion accumulated in every muscle of her body, the disappointment that weighs heavier than the anger, heavier than her wounded pride.
Finally, she sighs.
“I don’t care,” Martina says with a strange calm. “And I don’t care who you’re with now. This is over.”
Julia doesn’t respond. She doesn’t try to stop her, nor does she even try to argue. That silence feels almost more definitive than any argument, like a door closing, but with no chance of turning back.
Martina turns around. She walks toward the bedroom, opens the closet, and pulls out a jacket without really looking to see which one it is.
Her movements are quick, almost automatic, as if her body knew what to do before she could even think about it.
She looks for her keys and her purse, and for a second she stands still in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, trying to draw the air deep into her lungs.
Then she returns to the living room.
Julia is still there, standing by the window now, looking out at the dark street. The two look at each other, but there is nothing more to say. Between them lies an abyss of years, of lies and half-truths that they will never be able to cross.
When Martina reaches the street, the Cantabrian breeze caresses her face, laden with salt and humidity, and for a moment it feels liberating.
She walks without thinking too much about the direction.
The lights of Santander cast golden reflections on the pavement.
The city is quieter at this hour, but there are still people on some terraces, distant laughter that contrasts with the whirlwind inside her.
Martina crosses several streets without realizing it.
She passes through Plaza de Pombo, where a group of young people is laughing around a table full of glasses.
She continues down Hernán Cortés Street, feeling the weight of every step as if she were walking through a dream from which she cannot wake up.
Her mind replays fragments of the argument: Julia’s evasive gaze, Rebeca’s name spoken like a weapon, the certainty that everything she believed to be solid has crumbled in a single night.
She keeps walking. She crosses the Pereda Gardens, where the murmur of the sea drifts in from the boardwalk.
The salty breeze caresses her face, but it fails to lift the pressure she feels in her chest, that tightness that prevents her from breathing normally.
The memory of Rebeca inevitably surfaces.
Her intense gaze when they met at the party.
Her warm hands. The way she held her when they embraced on the street just a few hours ago.
And, at the same time, the feeling that everything she thought was certain has begun to crumble like a house of cards.
When she looks up, she realizes she has walked farther than she thought. She recognizes the streets. The old buildings with their iron balconies. The familiar doorway.
Almost without realizing it, she has arrived in front of Cora’s house again.
She stands there for a few seconds, staring at the door. The flood of emotions rises in her throat again in the form of tears she refuses to let fall just yet.
The seconds that pass before someone opens the door seem like an eternity.
When the door opens, Cora appears in the doorway, dressed in simple pajamas with her hair loose over her shoulders. Her expression changes immediately upon seeing her: from surprise to concern in a fraction of a second.
“Martina…” she murmurs, “What are you doing here?”
She doesn’t need to ask anything else. Martina’s face says it all, and soon, tears begin to slide down her cheeks before she can stop them.
Cora steps forward without hesitation and hugs her tightly, wrapping her arms around her.
Martina collapses into her embrace, burying her face in the crook of her neck, letting the familiar scent of Cora’s soap envelop her.
For the first time all night, she lets the sob she’s been holding back escape freely, broken and deep, while Cora’s hands gently stroke her back.
“Shhh… you’re here now,” Cora whispers against her hair. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
And Martina clings to her as if she were the only solid thing in a world that has just turned on its axis.