I never meant to ruin her life.

I was driving home in my 'Pantera'—my old 1982 Ford Grand Marquis, black as midnight, engine growling like a tired beast—after another failed deal. Rain slashed the windshield. I didn’t see her car swerve. One moment, the road was clear. The next, headlights vanished over the cliff.

I stopped. I shouldn’t have. I could’ve driven on. No one would’ve known.

But I went down. Slid through mud, heart pounding. And there she was—Alejandra Álvarez del Castillo—blood on her face, eyes wide with pain and fury. 'You did this,' she whispered. 'You killed me.'

I carried her out. Brought her to the clinic. They arrested me on sight.

Now, I’m standing in a courtroom, listening to the judge read the terms. Thirty-six payments. One hundred fifty thousand each. Six million pesos. A lifetime of work. All for a woman who hates me.

And then, she speaks. 'I’ll employ him,' she says, voice cold. 'Let him earn it. Let him suffer every day.'

I look at her. She won’t meet my eyes.

This is how it begins.