Chapter 4 - THE SIGNATURE I NEVER WROTE
“Who told you that my belongings could be removed?”
The photographer looked from me to Eva.
“Ma'am, I only received an assignment.”
I knew he wasn't responsible.
But I could barely keep my voice steady.
On Monday morning, I had a client presentation scheduled outside Madrid. Javier knew I'd planned to leave early.
If I hadn't discovered the reservation folder, I might have returned that evening to find our apartment stripped.
I asked the photographer for the removal company's name.
He showed me the scheduling details.
Then I called the company while he was still standing there.
The woman who answered confirmed that Javier Morales had booked a residential removal for Monday.
The destination was a storage facility outside the city.
“Can you tell me what items are scheduled for collection?” I asked.
She read from the order.
Bedroom furniture.
Personal clothing.
Books.
Kitchen equipment.
Office files.
Then she mentioned a note.
“The customer says everything remaining in the apartment is authorized for removal.”
My throat tightened.
“I'm the other owner. I haven't authorized anything.”
The woman immediately referred the booking to her supervisor.
I provided my contact information and explained that ownership and permission were disputed.
She confirmed that the company would not proceed with the collection while the authorization was unresolved.
I asked for written confirmation.
When it arrived, I saved three copies.
Eva watched me put down the phone.
“Good.”
I looked around our home.
“Good doesn't feel like the right word.”
“No,” she said. “But it's one thing he doesn't get to take from you.”
We asked the photographer to leave.
Then I photographed every room.
The furniture.
The shelves.
The television.
The books I'd collected since university.
The little ceramic bowl we bought on our honeymoon.
I felt ridiculous documenting ordinary household objects.
But Javier had taught me something painful.
A familiar home wasn't necessarily a safe home.
Before leaving, I opened the drawer beside our bed.
Our wedding photograph lay inside.
Javier had removed it from its usual place above the fireplace.
I picked it up.
There we were, nine years younger, standing outside a small church near Madrid.
My dress was simple.
Javier's suit was slightly too large.
His mother stood behind us, smiling.
I studied his face.
I remembered how nervous he'd been while putting the ring on my finger.
His hands had trembled.
So had mine.
I wondered when he'd stopped seeing me as somebody whose trust mattered.
Eva touched my shoulder.
“Clara?”
I put the photograph in my bag.
“Let's go.”
Our next stop was Raúl Serrano's office.
It occupied the second floor of a modern building near the Salamanca district.
Everything looked expensive without appearing welcoming.
Raúl himself was a neatly dressed man in his forties with polished shoes and a carefully maintained beard.
When his receptionist told him my name, his expression changed.
“Mrs. Morales.”
“I believe you have been arranging to sell my apartment.”
He gestured toward a chair.
“Perhaps we should discuss this privately.”
Eva sat beside me.
“She's staying,” I said.
Raúl looked uncomfortable.
Then he opened a file.
He claimed Javier had contacted him about a potential sale six weeks earlier.
Six weeks.
Not last Thursday.
Not after an unexpected business emergency.
Six weeks ago, my husband had started planning a future without telling me.
Raúl showed me the preliminary marketing authorization.
My name appeared beside Javier's.
And beneath it was a signature.
I stared.
It looked like mine.
Almost.
The first letter of Morales had the same exaggerated curve I used when signing formal documents.
But the final stroke was wrong.
Too straight.
Too careful.
“I didn't sign this.”
Raúl looked surprised.
“Your husband assured me both owners had approved the marketing process.”
“Where did this signature come from?”
He checked the file.
“A scanned authorization was forwarded to our office last Thursday.”
Last Thursday.
While I'd been in Valencia.
“Did you meet me?”
“No.”
“Did you speak with me?”
“No.”
“Did you verify the signature directly?”
He shifted in his chair.
“I relied on the information supplied by my client.”
I leaned forward.
“Then your client lied.”
Raúl said nothing.
I showed him my travel confirmation and explained that I'd been away when the authorization was supposedly signed.
He reviewed the timestamp.
His professional confidence began to disappear.
“Mrs. Morales, I can suspend all marketing activities immediately while this is investigated.”
“Do that.”
He reached for his computer.
I watched him change the listing status.
Then he printed confirmation.
But I wasn't finished.
“Why did you reserve a private room at the restaurant last night?”
Raúl looked toward Eva.
Then back at me.
“I didn't reserve it. Javier invited me.”
“For what?”
“He said you were ready to discuss the sale.”
“And?”
“He wanted to review an offer before presenting it formally.”
“An offer from whom?”
Raúl hesitated.
“There was interest from an investment buyer.”
“Did I agree to any of this?”
He shook his head.
“Not directly.”
I almost smiled at those two words.
Not directly.
Apparently, my husband had found an entire world of people willing to make decisions around me without ever speaking to me.
I asked Raúl for copies of the documents relating to my supposed authorization.
He provided the disputed form and a written record that marketing had been suspended.
For the remaining internal records, he said he would preserve them and cooperate with any formal request.
That was enough for the moment.
Then I noticed a page inside the file.
It contained a breakdown of estimated proceeds.
The proposed sale price was €385,000.
After the mortgage balance, selling costs, and other deductions, Raúl had estimated what would remain.
But the next line caught my attention.
A proposed payment of €74,000 was marked for a business settlement.
I pointed at it.
“What's this?”
Raúl looked down.
“Your husband said certain obligations would need to be cleared before the remaining proceeds were distributed.”
“Obligations to whom?”
He checked the entry.
“Bodega Horizonte, S.L.”
I frowned.
“That's not my mother-in-law's business.”
“No?”
“No. She owns Papelería Sol.”
Raúl looked genuinely confused.
“Mr. Morales told me Bodega Horizonte was a family business.”
I felt a familiar chill.
Javier had told me about an investment in imported wines years earlier.
He'd described it as a small opportunity with a friend.
When I'd asked whether he planned to put substantial money into it, he'd laughed.
“Clara, I'm not stupid. It's a side project.”
I hadn't heard the company's name in months.
Now it was receiving most of the money supposedly needed to save his mother's stationery shop.
I asked Raúl whether he knew who owned Bodega Horizonte.
He checked the company information Javier had supplied.
Then he turned the page toward me.
There, beneath the company name, was the managing director.
Javier Morales.
I stared at his name.
My husband wasn't simply trying to rescue his mother's business.
He was planning to use our home to settle debts belonging to a company he'd hidden from me.
Raúl cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Morales, I think you should seek independent professional advice before signing anything relating to this property.”
I looked at the papers.
“I won't be signing anything for Javier.”
We left his office shortly afterward.
Outside, the sun was bright.
People were walking their dogs, carrying shopping bags, and sitting at café tables.
The city continued as though nothing extraordinary had happened.
Eva opened the car door.
“Where now?”
I looked at the paper bearing Javier's company name.
For the first time, I wasn't interested in another explanation from him.
I wanted to know how much of his story was true.
“Papelería Sol,” I said.
Eva looked at me.
“His mother's shop?”
“Yes.”
I folded the paper.
“Mercedes says she's about to lose everything.”
May you like
I looked at Javier's name again.
“I'm going to find out whether that's true—or whether she's helping him take everything from me.”
