After three years of hoping, of quiet tests and whispered prayers in the dark, Elena was finally pregnant. Two months along now, the doctor had said that morning, and already she carried the secret like a small, warm light inside her. "We have been waiting for this miracle for quite a while now," she thought, gratitude swelling in her chest. But he has never shown any impatience to me. It's my luck to have him.
She stepped out of the clinic gates into the humid morning, the air thick with diesel and the sharp scent of hope. She kept starring at the test results lost in thoughts, overexcited if she should head home first, prepare her husband's best meal and announce it to him. She couldn't wait to break the silence. Her hand rested instinctively on her still-flat belly as she flagged down a yellow taxi idling at the curb. The driver, a middle-aged man with a faded Manchester United cap tilted back, leaned over to push the passenger door open without a word. She slid onto the cracked vinyl seat, giving him the address of her husband's office building downtown.
As the taxi pulled away, merging into the slow crawl of traffic, her thoughts swirled with joy and anticipation. She pictured his face when she told him—the slow smile that always started in his eyes first, the way he'd pull her close without saying much at all. He had never pressured her through the long months of waiting, never let frustration show even when another cycle ended in silence. That patience had been her anchor. Now, finally, she could give him this gift—a child, their future.
The driver flicked on the headlights even though daylight still clung to the sky; habit, perhaps, or caution in the hazy traffic. The dashboard lights bloomed faintly blue and red, catching the small Jesus figurine taped above the radio. Tinny highlife music played low from the speakers, a guitar riff threading through the engine's rumble.
She watched the city slide past in fragments: women balancing basins on their heads, schoolchildren in crisp uniforms dodging puddles, billboards peeling at the corners. Her fingers traced small circles over her abdomen, protective, wondering what he would look like—the boy she already loved without meeting. A son, she imagined, with Alejandro's kind eyes and her determination.
The taxi jostled over a pothole, and she steadied herself against the door. She had never visited his office before, not once in all their years together. His work life existed in a separate compartment, one she had never asked to enter. Today felt different, important. She wanted to walk through those glass doors carrying their news, to see the space where he spent his days, just for a moment, like she belonged there too.
As the building came into view near the bay, the low rumble of ship engines filled the air. Now she could "Unbox The Untold," she thought whimsically, her excitement bubbling.
Elena slipped through the entrance and approached the receptionist.
"Hello, how can I help you?" the woman asked.
"I'm here to see my husband."
"It's working hours. Can you come back in a few hours?"
"It's urgent," Elena insisted, her voice firm.
The receptionist sighed, pulling out a notepad. "Alright, state your reason."
"I think it gets to his ears first," she cautioned.
"Okay, madam. May I know your name, please?"
"Elena Andrea. My husband is Alejandro Andrea."
The receptionist's face paled. "Oh my God…" She stared like she'd seen a ghost.
"Is something wrong?" Elena asked, her heart racing suddenly.
Rose swallowed hard. "Elena… your husband was arrested this morning."
Elena's hand trembled; the plastic pregnancy strip and test results slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. The world narrowed to a pinprick, her joy shattering like glass.
"What did he do?" she whispered, voice breaking.
"I don't know the details," Rose said softly. "I think he's at Bogotá station."
Tears stung Elena's eyes. She stormed out, flagged another taxi, and slid inside. As the city blurred past, her mind raced with frantic thoughts, each crashing like waves in a storm.
"Where are we headed, ma'am?" the taxi driver called, snapping her back.
"Bogotá police station, please," she answered haphazardly.
What could possibly be the problem? Had he upset someone powerful, crossed the wrong person without realizing? Why on earth would the police pick him up like that, out of the blue? The questions swirled endlessly, her hand protectively over her belly. The taxi driver tore through the crowded streets, horn blaring in sharp bursts that amplified her panic.
It felt like the world was crumbling, the weight pressing until she could barely breathe. In the chaos, she forgot the good news—the child coming soon. How could she tell him now?
At the station, she burst through the doors, breathless.
"Hello, madam, are you okay?" an officer stepped in.
"I need to see my husband. How has he wronged? He's a good man," she pleaded.
"I'm sorry for whatever might have transpired. Please take a seat, ma'am. What's your name, please?"
"Elena Andrea," she replied coldly.
"Alright, I'll get back to you shortly," he said, leaving without hesitation.
Elena could hear her heartbeat thundering in her ears…
"Are you Mrs. Elena Andrea, wife of Alejandro Andrea?" another officer approached.
"Yes—please, I need to see him."
"I'm sorry, ma'am. No visitors allowed. Trial's in three days. It's a murder case."
The words hit like a slap. "Murderer." She'd shared a bed, a life, three years with a murderer. "I knew this would happen," she thought bitterly. He never wanted me leaving the house nor knowing his place of work.
The realization echoed as she left, anger and heartbreak burning. But deep down, doubt crept in—was he really capable of this?
****
The heavy wooden doors of the courtroom swung open with a groan, and Alejandro stepped inside, the chains on his wrists clinking softly. A wall of heat and hatred hit him immediately. The gallery was packed—faces twisted in rage, eyes burning holes through him.
As he approached the threshold, "You cruel son of a bitch!" a woman shrieked from the front row. Her voice cracked like glass. She was the guard's wife—Maria—clutching two small boys against her sides. The older one, maybe seven, stared at Alejandro with blank, hollow eyes. The younger cried into her skirt.
More voices joined: "Murderer!" "Killer!" A man in a faded security jacket half-rose, restrained by others. The crowd surged, fists clenched, until bailiffs intervened.
Alejandro kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, forcing steps down the aisle. His lawyer—a harried public defender—waited, looking uneasy.
Then he saw her. Elena stood near the rail, pale, arms wrapped around herself. When their eyes met, she lurched forward, fingers brushing his sleeve.
"Alejandro—"
He jerked away, betrayal raw. "Don't touch me," he muttered. "You already did enough."
She grabbed his wrist anyway, tears streaking. "I have a baby," she whispered. "I'm pregnant."
The words punched him. He froze, staring at her stomach. For a second, the noise faded. Then reality crashed back.
He yanked free. She flinched.
The gavel cracked. "Order!" the judge barked. "This court will come to order or I will clear the gallery!"
Silence fell. The judge—a stern woman in her fifties—adjusted her glasses. "Case number 24-CR-1876. The People versus Alejandro Andrea. Charges: first-degree murder in the deaths of two security guards, Lionel Reyes and Andrea Luiz; burglary in the first degree; theft of property valued in excess of one million dollars. Mr. Andrea, you have been advised of your rights?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"How do you plead?"
"Guilty."
A gasp ripped through the room, followed by outrage. "He's admitting it!" "Monster!"
The judge pounded the gavel. "Quiet!"
She turned to Alejandro. "The prosecution has presented evidence including your access card swiped at 11:47 p.m.—five hours after closing—security footage showing a figure matching your build. Do you wish to make a statement?"
"No."
"Very well. Having entered a plea of guilty, and considering the heinous nature—I sentence you to life imprisonment without parole."
The words slammed like a door. His life flashed: laughs with Fred, Elena's hums, promised promotions. He spotted his manager, pale, half-risen.
"We had an understanding," Alejandro said loudly.
The manager froze, shaking his head subtly, mouthing: "We'll figure a way out of this."
Fred pushed through. "Ale—man, what the hell? You didn't…"
Alejandro met his eyes. "My wife is the murderer. She set me up. The card, the tip, everything."
Fred recoiled. "What?"
Bailiffs gripped him, pulling toward the door. The crowd surged—"Murderer!" "Rot in hell!"
He twisted one last time. Elena stood alone, tears streaming, hand on her stomach. Their eyes locked.
No words. Just silence, thick and final, as the door closed.