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At first, he treated me like royalty.
Attentive. Devoted. Flawless.
“Just put it under your name for paperwork, but it’s ours, mi amor.”
Until his parents grew comfortable with me paying for their medical expenses,
their home renovations,
their extravagant year-end parties.
Until Ricardo said the sentence that finally shattered my illusion:
“You only have your name on the deed, but the house belongs to my family. You should understand.”
I smiled softly.
Because once, I was a woman who believed in good intentions.
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