Millionaire locks pregnant wife in freezing basement for his lover — maid saves her
Millionaire locks pregnant wife in freezing basement for his lover — maid saves her
Three hours before the music started, the afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the house in Las Lomas, but it didn't manage to warm anything. The Ibarra mansion was immaculate: white flowers in tall vases, candles lined up like soldiers, crystal glasses awaiting the first toast. Everything smelled of money… and of something colder, invisible, clinging to the walls.
Ximena Ibarra, seven months pregnant, stood in front of the unlit fireplace as if the entire house were apologizing to her. One hand on her belly, the other gripping the edge of a chair to steady herself as the sharp pain in her back surged like a wave. She had dreamed of this birthday: Mauricio's birthday, her husband's. Dreamed of seeing him smile at her, even if only out of obligation. Dreamed that, for one night, the child on the way would be a source of pride and not a burden.
The front door burst open.
Mauricio walked in without looking at her. Perfect suit, gold cufflinks, his face hard as if he'd just come from a meeting where no one dared contradict him. He walked straight to the coffee table and threw down a long, black box wrapped in red ribbon. The thud echoed in the silence like an ultimatum.
Ximena swallowed. With Mauricio, gifts were never gifts: they were orders with a bow.
He poured himself a whiskey, without asking if she wanted water, if she was hungry, if the baby had moved. He loosened his tie, straightened his shirt, and, without turning around, said:
"Open it."
Ximena hesitated. Her fingers trembled as she untied the ribbon. She lifted the lid.
Inside was a red dress, blood red. It shimmered in the light as if fire were stored in each sequin. It was beautiful… and ridiculously small. Tight-fitting, made for a waist that didn't exist, for a body that wasn't carrying life.
Ximena looked up, confused.
"Mauricio… this won't fit me. I'm pregnant."
He turned slowly, the glass in his hand. His gaze swept over her body with a coldness that was no longer surprise, but hurt.
"I know," he said. "It's not for you."
The box slipped from his grasp. The lump in his throat tightened so much he felt his voice would escape.
"Then… who is it for?"
Mauricio took a sip as if the answer tasted sweet.
"I just wanted you to see what the hostess is going to wear tonight."
Ximena took a step forward, her heart pounding in her chest.
"The hostess? I'm your wife. It's your birthday. This is my house."
Mauricio let out a short, humorless laugh. He slammed the glass down on the table.
“Look at you, Ximena. You’re tired. You’re… puffed up. Investors are coming tonight. People who pay to see success, strength, perfection. You don’t project any of that.”
Ximena clenched her fists.
“I’m carrying your son.”
“That’s not success. That’s a… temporary inconvenience,” he said, moving closer until he was invading her space. “Renata’s coming. She’ll be by my side when I blow out the candles. Renata looks like what I need them to see.”
The name hit her like a slap in the face. Renata. The woman with the long stares, the one the rumors in the office hallways were about, the one Mauricio didn’t even bother to hide anymore.
Ximena felt something inside her—pride, fear, self-respect—shut up.
“No. I’m not going to let that woman come in here and pretend to be my man.” If you come in, I'm going to make such a scene in front of your "investors" that they'll never forget it.
Mauricio's mask slipped. What remained was a cold, calculated rage.
"Are you threatening me... in my own home?"
"I'm defending my dignity."
Ximena tried to get past him, to go up to her room, to breathe. She didn't even make it two steps.
Mauricio's hand closed around her arm. It wasn't a blow: it was a clamp. A steely "I've got you." He yanked her back hard, making her stumble. Ximena let out a whimper and instinctively covered her stomach with her other hand.
"You're hurting me!" she screamed, and something she still believed existed between them shattered in her voice.
"You're not going to ruin my night," he whispered, pressing his face close to hers. "I gave you the option to be quiet. You chose the challenge."
And he began dragging her down the service corridor, toward the kitchen, toward where the house ceases to be elegant and becomes a machine. Ximena tried to stop herself, her shoes slipping on the marble, but Mauricio was too strong. Too used to seeing people break.
In the kitchen, Marisol—a young woman in her early twenties, her uniform pressed, her hair hastily pulled back—was polishing silverware. Seeing them, she dropped a fork on the floor.
"Mr. Ibarra…" she managed to say.
"Back to your work," Mauricio growled without looking at her.
May you like
Marisol froze. She had seen Mauricio yell at managers on the phone. She had seen him smile like a saint in front of cameras. But that hand squeezing Ximena's arm… that was something else. That was private, dirty, real.
Mauricio pushed Ximena to a reinforced door at the end of the corridor: the basement door. The lock
