My husband never knew that I was the anonymous multimillionaire behind the company he was celebrating that night. To him, I was just his “simple and tired” wife, the one who had “ruined her body” after giving birth to twins. At his promotion gala, I stood holding the babies when he pushed me toward the exit.

Elena Morales woke long before dawn even hinted at arriving.

Cold mountain air seeped through the broken window of the abandoned house where she had spent the night. The smell of damp earth and mist clung to the silence.

She rested a hand on her stomach.

Five months pregnant.
Thirty-six years old.
And three months a widow.

Her husband, Daniel Torres, had not died suddenly in a dramatic accident. Instead, he had simply worn out. Years of exhausting labor beneath the blazing sun of a northern mining town had slowly crushed his lungs and his spirit.