Mariana knew her husband wanted her dead the day the tea tasted like old money and Raúl smiled at her as if he were already counting his money.
“If something happens to me, Raúl gets everything… and that’s exactly what he wants,” she murmured in front of the bathroom mirror, while applying makeup to her dark circles with trembling hands.
At forty-two, Doña Mariana Salcedo was a respected woman in Guadalajara. She had built a natural products company from scratch, owned an elegant house in Puerta de Hierro, and had a family that boasted of her achievements as if they were medals blessed by God.
But that morning she looked like a shadow.
Ash-gray skin, a bitter taste in her mouth, a queasy stomach, and a weakness that seeped into her bones like ice water. Nothing helped: not vitamins, not IV fluids, not even the teas her husband prepared with “so much love.”
—Did you wake up feeling unwell again, my love? —Raul asked from the doorway.
Her voice was sweet.
Too sweet.
Before, if Mariana got sick, he’d barely look up from his phone. Now he’d straighten her pillows, make her breakfast, bring her capsules and “organic” honey, and look at her with the face of a concerned saint.
“It must be stress,” she replied, watching him in the mirror.
Raul smiled and served him coffee.
Then her cell phone vibrated on the table. A name appeared on the screen:
Vanessa.
Mariana pretended not to see it, but she felt the blow to her chest.
Vanessa Ríos was twenty-seven years old, worked at the agency where Raúl was the sales director, and wore dresses that weren’t commensurate with her salary. Mariana had seen them kissing six months earlier in the Plaza Andares parking lot.
He didn’t make a fuss.
He thought it was a ridiculous adventure, an old man’s crisis of wanting to feel young.
But then the symptoms arrived.
First, tiredness.
Then the nausea.
Then came the dizziness, the bitter taste in his mouth, the strange pains, and that horrible feeling of his body shutting down from the inside.
And while Mariana withered away, Raúl blossomed.
New shirts, expensive cologne, “business” trips, late-night meetings, and hidden smiles. Suddenly, he was also in a great hurry to talk about his will.
“By the way,” Raúl said, as if commenting on the weather, “Notary Sandoval called me. He says it’s a good idea to update your paperwork. For your safety, my love.”
Mariana put the cup down on the table.
—My papers?
—Your will. You know, the company, the accounts, the house. You never know.
That was the difference that chilled him to the bone: if Mariana died, Raúl would inherit everything. The house, the cars, the wineries, the brand she had built with years of hard work.
But if they divorced, because of the marriage contract, he would receive almost nothing.
Esa tarde, cuando Raúl salió, Mariana revisó la cocina.
La miel olía raro.
Las cápsulas parecían abiertas y vueltas a cerrar.
Su crema nocturna tenía la tapa mal puesta.
No sabía exactamente qué buscaba, pero algo dentro de ella, algo más fuerte que el miedo, le gritaba que no estaba loca.
Llamó a Patricia, su mejor amiga.
—¿Te acuerdas de Vanessa, la de la agencia? —dijo Patricia—. Ayer la vi comprando un vestido carísimo. Como de treinta mil pesos. ¿Pues de dónde saca?
Mariana apretó los labios.
—Tal vez alguien se lo regaló.
Esa noche, Raúl llegó tarde, le besó la frente y fue directo a la cocina.
—Te voy a preparar un té con miel. Te va a hacer bien.
Cuando le entregó la taza, Mariana bebió apenas un sorbo.
Dulce.
Amargo.
Metálico.
—Tómatelo todo —insistió él—. Ándale, no seas necia.
Ella sonrió débilmente. Pero en cuanto Raúl subió al baño, vació el té en una maceta.
A las once y media, lo vio salir con su camisa azul, esa que usaba cuando quería sentirse de treinta. Mariana tomó las llaves y lo siguió a distancia.
Raúl llegó a un edificio elegante en Providencia. Subió al tercer piso. Minutos después, detrás de una cortina, apareció la silueta de Vanessa.
Mariana no lloró.
Solo entendió.
Su esposo no estaba buscando una amante. Estaba preparando una viuda.
Al día siguiente fue al notario Sandoval. Él le explicó que Raúl había pedido incluir una cláusula para agilizar la entrega de bienes en caso de fallecimiento.
Mariana, pálida, sonrió.
—Claro. Raúl siempre ha sido muy práctico.
Firmó.
Al salir, vio a Vanessa junto a la cafetería del edificio, hablando por teléfono.
—Ya firmó —decía la joven—. Raúl dice que cada día está más débil. Falta poco.
Mariana se quedó inmóvil detrás de una columna, con el corazón golpeándole el pecho.
