"I already took it," I lied.
He smiled, satisfied, and lay down beside me.
I didn't sleep that night.
I watched him breathe. I listened to him. And for the first time in six years, I felt neither love nor tenderness.
I felt like I was next to a stranger.
The next morning, I did something I had never done in my life: I feigned fragility.
I ate breakfast slowly. I dropped my spoon. I got "confused" about the day of the week. I leaned against the wall as if the world were spinning around me.
Diego's face lit up, not with worry, but with confirmation.
"My love... you see?" he said, stroking my hair. "I swear, I just want to help you. Sometimes... sometimes I feel like you're slipping away from me."
He said it like someone complaining about a flickering light.
“It scares me,” I whispered, lowering my eyes. “I don’t want to lose control.”
Diego took my hands. His fingers were warm. His voice, perfect.
“Then let’s do this right, my little wife. I want to protect you… legally. Just in case something happens to you someday, just in case… you know. The house, the villa, your accounts. I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you.”
There it was.
The door he expected me to open on my own.
“Legally?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“We can sign a power of attorney,” he said gently. “Just in case. Nothing bad. It’s for your peace of mind. I love you.”
I nodded like a weary woman.
“Yes… maybe.”
And I saw how, behind his “serene” gaze, something tightened like a spring of suppressed emotion.
That afternoon, as soon as Diego left “to teach,” I didn’t go to yoga. I went to a discreet office in the Lafayette neighborhood. A lawyer recommended by a friend from my first marriage. A man with gray hair, a calm gaze.
I told him everything. I showed him the results. I showed him the bottle, the photos I took of the liquid and the small amber bottle when Diego wasn't looking, the schedule of the "doses," my symptoms, my medical history.
The lawyer wasn't shocked. That frightened me and relieved me at the same time.
"This has two paths," he said. "Criminal: administering substances without consent, possible attempted aggravated assault… depending on the ruling. And civil/property protection: immediate safeguards. Change access, accounts, will, and protective measures."
He handed me a short, clear list.
"First: you will never again drink anything he gives you. Second: we're going to document everything. Third: we're going to anticipate this. Because if this man is clever, he's going to try to make you look… incapable."
"I'm going to take action." I left the office with a strange feeling: for the first time since my first husband died, I was making decisions without asking permission.
That night, Diego returned with a folder in his hand.
"My little wife, look," he said excitedly. "I have someone excellent. A notary friend. He can come tomorrow. Quick, easy. You sign, and that's it. That way you'll get that weight off your shoulders."
His tone was too cheerful to be love. It was hunger.
