Chapter 2 - The Paradise of Fools
The lakeside villa in Valle de Bravo was a masterpiece of modern architecture—all raw concrete, local pine wood, and massive floor-to-ceiling glass panels that opened directly onto a private dock. The air smelled of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and the crisp, clean dampness of the lake.
Alejandro stood near the infinity pool, his white linen shirt perfectly unbuttoned at the collar, a crystal glass of tequila resting in his hand. His three closest friends—Javier, Rodrigo, and Beto—were lounging on leather outdoor sofas, laughing loudly as a private chef prepared a premium ribeye steak on the industrial grill.
"To thirty-five years of greatness!" Javier shouted, raising his glass toward Alejandro. "To the man who managed to escape the domestic prison, if only for a weekend!"
The men cheered, clinking their glasses together. Alejandro smiled, a wave of intense satisfaction washing over him. He took a deep sip of the tequila, feeling the familiar, burning warmth slide down his throat. For the past eight days, his life had been an absolute nightmare of domestic chaos. The house in Lomas Verdes had smelled of baby formula, dirty diapers, and Mariana’s constant, exhausting tears. Every time he entered a room, she was either bleeding, complaining about her stitches, or begging him to hold the baby so she could sleep for an hour.
“I’m a businessman,” Alejandro had told himself repeatedly during the drive down. “I manage a corporate real estate portfolio. I can’t function on three hours of sleep. She chose to have this baby naturally; she should deal with the consequences.”
"Hey, Ale," Rodrigo called out, flipping through his phone. "Did Mariana ever stop texting you? You know how women get when you leave them alone with a newborn. My wife didn't let me breathe for a month."
Alejandro pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen was black. He had flipped the toggle to airplane mode the moment he passed the Toluca toll booth. He let out a smug, dismissive chuckle. "I turned it off, bro. I told her straight up: it’s my birthday, not your funeral. She was throwing a massive tantrum, pretending she was dizzy just so I wouldn't leave. Typical emotional manipulation. If you give them an inch, they take a mile."
"Smart move," Beto agreed, biting into a piece of grilled sausage. "Let her cool down. By Monday, she’ll be so tired of being mad that she’ll just want you to take her out to dinner."
Alejandro stuffed the phone back into his pocket, completely dismissing the faint, lingering image of Mariana sitting on the nursery floor, her hands pressing a towel between her legs. He convinced himself that she was just being dramatic. Women had been giving birth for thousands of years; his own mother had raised three children without a single complaint, always looking immaculate when his father came home from the office. Mariana was simply soft.
By 9:00 PM, the party had shifted into high gear. The private chef had left, and the house was filled with the loud, thumping bass of electronic music. Two local girls whom Javier had invited from a nearby lakeside bar had joined them, pouring shots and dancing near the fire pit. Alejandro was in the center of it all, his linen shirt now slightly stained with alcohol, his laughter loud and loose.
He felt powerful. He felt young. He had completely erased the existence of his eight-day-old son and his bleeding wife from his consciousness.
Meanwhile, seventy miles away in the intensive care unit of the Hospital Español in Mexico City, a team of three surgeons was fighting an entirely different kind of battle.
"Her blood pressure is dropping again! Give me two more units of O-negative, fast!" the lead surgeon shouted, his brow soaked with sweat beneath his paper cap. "We’ve got a massive secondary postpartum hemorrhage here. The uterine artery has ruptured. Prepare the balloon tamponade!"
Lucía sat in the sterile, fluorescent-lit waiting room, her eyes fixed on the double doors of the surgical ward. Mateo was asleep in a small plastic bassinet beside her, provided by the hospital’s pediatric unit. Her hands were still stained with her sister’s blood; she had refused to wash them, wanting the physical reminder of Alejandro’s crime to stay anchored to her skin.
At 11:30 PM, the doors finally opened, and an elderly doctor in green scrubs walked out, pulling off his mask. His face was lined with deep exhaustion.
"Are you Mariana’s sister?" he asked.
Lucía stood up instantly, her knees shaking. "Yes. Is she... is she alive?"
The doctor took a deep breath. "She survived the surgery, but it was incredibly close. She lost nearly three liters of blood. We had to perform an emergency subtotal hysterectomy to stop the bleeding. Her uterus was completely unresponsive. She will never be able to have children again, and she will remain in a medically induced coma for the next forty-eight hours to allow her organs to stabilize."
Lucía covered her mouth, a silent, jagged sob tearing through her chest. A hysterectomy. At twenty-eight years old. Because her husband wouldn't call an ambulance.
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"Where is the father?" the doctor asked, his voice hardening as he looked around the empty waiting room. "We need his signature for the permanent admission files and the insurance authorizations."
"The father is dead," Lucía said, her voice dropping into a tone of absolute ice. "He just doesn't know it yet."
