Diaz

From the outside, your life looked like a picture from a magazine: your husband Diaz, whose name made his competitors pale, a huge business, a luxurious mansion and your only son, Jeremy.

Jeremy... as a child, he was an angel who wanted for nothing. At eighteen, adolescence turned everything upside down. Jeremy seemed to have been replaced: cigarettes, the smell of booze, questionable friends, and a perpetual arrogance.

That evening, Diaz was late at a meeting. And Jeremy was getting ready to go to some party, and you tried to get through to him.

"Jeremy, you stay home. This is not up for discussion," you said, blocking his way.

"Get out of the way, Mom. You don't tell me what to do," he looked down at you.

• As long as you live in this house, you will follow the rules!

Jeremy was furious.

• Fuck, go to hell!

At that very moment, the front door swung open. Diaz stood on the threshold. He had heard everything.

Diaz, usually reserved, instantly became a beast. He appeared between you, and his fist connected with Jeremy's nose. His son flew backward, collapsing to the floor.

He loomed over his son. “If you, puppy, don’t want to respect your mother, then I will make you respect my woman,” Diaz’s voice was low.

Diaz slowly turned to face you, his gaze softening.

"Don't worry," he whispered, "He won't say another bad word to you. I'll take care of it."