Chapter 26:

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And Selena?

Her sponsors dropped her one by one. The makeup company. The fashion brand. The “eco-friendly” dog food she’d been shilling despite, you know, the whole torturing animals thing.

Her social media accounts got reported so many times that platforms started restricting her access. First Instagram. Then TikTok. Then Twitter. One by one, her carefully curated online presence disappeared.

She tried to fight back. Posted a tearful video claiming she’d been hacked, that the abuse videos were fake, that she was the real victim here.

The internet didn’t buy it.

Someone ran a forensic analysis of the videos. Confirmed they were authentic, taken from her devices, posted from her accounts. The timestamps and GPS coordinates matched perfectly with her other posts.

She was done.

Clara and I watched it happen from our couch, laptops open, tracking every development like it was the world’s most satisfying reality show.

“Do you think we went too far?” Clara asked on day five.

I thought about it. About Samuel. About Julian shoving me. About Marcos calling us dramatic. About “we’re even.”

“No,” I said. “I think we went exactly far enough.”

“Good. Me neither.”

On day seven, the police came for Selena.

We weren’t there—Clara had sources at the station who kept us updated—but apparently it was quite the scene. Selena’s house surrounded by media and angry citizens. People who’d trusted her, believed her animal rescue persona, donated to her “causes.”

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They weren’t happy to learn it had all been a lie.

The charges were serious. Animal cruelty. Endangering public safety through the poisoning of strays. Tax evasion—turns out she’d been laundering money through her “rescue organization.” Distribution of violent content.

Minimum sentence: three years.

Maximum: seven.

Clara opened a bottle of champagne.

“Is it wrong to celebrate someone going to jail?” I asked.

“Probably. Do you care?”

“Not even a little bit.”

We toasted. Drank. Ordered more pizza. Watched the news coverage.

They showed Selena being led away in handcuffs, still screaming about injustice. Still playing the victim. Still refusing to accept that actions have consequences.

“All I did was send Adriana a dead cat! And that makes me guilty?” Her voice was shrill, desperate. “You can’t keep your men, and you blame me!”

Clara snorted. “Keep watching. It gets better.”

Selena turned to face the cameras, her hair wild, her makeup running. “It’s Julian and Marcos who don’t want to be with you! They were the ones who didn’t go to Metropolitan Hospital or bring the medication! They’re responsible for your son’s death! Why are you punishing me?”

The police tried to move her along. She resisted.

And that’s when the cameras caught us.

Clara and I standing behind the police barricade, watching. Waiting.

Selena saw us. Made eye contact.

I looked at her without expression. Without anger or satisfaction or anything at all.

“Because you’re trash,” I said. Loud enough for her to hear. Quiet enough that most people missed it.

Clara gave her the middle finger.

Then we turned around and left.

Outside the police station, Julian and Marcos were waiting.

Of course they were. Where else would they be? Their obsession was in handcuffs. Their wives were finally done with them. The divorce waiting period ended today.

Julian held a bouquet of roses. Red ones. The kind you give someone you love.

The kind I’d asked him for on our anniversary and never received.

“Adriana.” He stepped forward. “You already sent Selena to jail. I didn’t do anything to stop you. I let you post everything about me and let people insult me. I was even suspended from Metropolitan Hospital, but I don’t hold it against you.”

He said it like he deserved a medal. Like letting me destroy his reputation without fighting back was some grand gesture of love.

“Are you satisfied now?” he continued. “Can we forget about the divorce?”

Marcos had his own bouquet. His own speech. “You know how I feel about you,” he whispered to Clara, embarrassed.

Clara and I looked at each other. Pushed their bouquets away simultaneously.

It was almost choreographed. Would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.

“Marcos,” Clara said, her voice dripping with contempt. “You care so much about Selena, why don’t you marry her when she gets out of prison? Or whoever you want. Because I’m not planning to be your wife again.”

Marcos, who’d always been adored by her, who’d never been rejected by anyone in his privilege-soaked life, couldn’t handle it.

“All this drama because I didn’t go to Metropolitan Hospital to drop off the medication?” His voice rose. “Don’t you think my nephew’s death hurts me too? You posted everything about me and destroyed my company, and still I didn’t complain. What more do you want?”

Clara looked at him coldly. “Nothing. You’re trash, and you don’t deserve me.”

“Clara, don’t regret this later!”

But we were already walking away.

Toward our cars. Toward the civil registry. Toward the final signature that would make this divorce official.

Toward freedom.

Behind us, I heard Marcos throw his roses in the trash. Heard him yelling something at Clara, probably another threat about regret.

I didn’t look back.

Neither did Clara.

We were done looking back.

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