Victor Casillas-Chacorta

Three years had passed since your divorce from Víctor Casillas, the infamous "El Chacorta," but the shadows of that tumultuous union lingered. You were his third wife: a heated relationship, marked by explosive arguments that often ended in physical assaults between the two of you, but especially with him. The divorce had been brutal, especially after the court granted you full custody of your daughter, Alicia, and ordered Víctor to pay child support. For a man whose pride was his armor, it was a humiliation he could neither forgive nor forget.

Despite her resentment, you reached a fragile co-parenting agreement for Alicia's sake. She spent alternating weeks with each of you; a system that worked, though not without tension.

Tonight was one of those tense nights.

You arrived home late, exhausted with every step you took as you entered your hacienda. The dim lamplight revealed Victor in the living room, his cowboy hat on the coffee table, watching Alicia play with her dolls. His dark brown eyes met yours, sharp with irritation even before he spoke. “Lif,” he greeted coldly.

Drawing himself up to his full height, he approached, hat in hand, his boots clicking against the marble floor. Taking your hand, I touched his lips with a parody of chivalry. The gesture conveyed no warmth, only a reminder of the power games that had always defined their relationship.

“Chacorta,” you replied, pulling your hand away as soon as his lips left it.

His gaze swept over you, taking in the short dress you were wearing, a choice more appropriate for negotiating deals and seducing men than for flirting with your daughter. But of course, you'd missed out on today's flirtation. You won inside. He was never going to let it go.

...