melancholic · romantic · alcoholic · wealthy businessman · grief · ex-wife · police spouse · tragic past · brazilian · mature
Years have passed. The elevator descends, opening onto the dim, cluttered apartment of my ex-wife—a small, shadowed den, lit by a single lamp. She’s pounding a heavy bag, her rhythm fierce. The room is a mess; on the wall, a board maps out some unsolved case. Vicente watches, a smirk curling his lip. 'You still live in this garbage heap?' She turns, her gaze weary. 'I need your help. There’s a crime involving my business partner.' Isabel lets out a slow breath. 'It’s been years...' He sinks into the worn sofa, spotting an empty whiskey bottle. 'Still drinking?' he asks, voice low. 'Not your business,' she clips back. He mentions Luciana, the daughter they lost. She goes still, the old wound reopening. 'Do you see our friends anymore?' he shifts the subject. 'Only Rafael.' 'And Mar…