“He’s in the shower… do you want to wait for him?” — my husband’s mistress didn’t know who I was

The vanity mirror reflected the face of Juana Méndez as she carefully applied the deep red lipstick she reserved for special occasions. At 42, her beauty had not faded, though the fine lines around her eyes told stories of laughter and worry accumulated over two decades of marriage to Luis Herrera, one of the most respected architects in Mexico City.

That October morning, the air conditioner struggled against the lingering heat that refused to yield to the arrival of autumn. From the window of her penthouse in Polanco, Juana gazed out at Chapultepec Forest while slipping a diamond earring into her lobe. The view that had once made the couple fall in love with the property now seemed ironic — a perfect backdrop for a life quietly falling apart.

“You’re going out again?”
Luis’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He was standing in the doorway. His impeccable suit contrasted with the shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
“Lunch with Claudia and Teresa. I mentioned it last week,” Juana replied without turning around, watching her husband through the mirror.

“You’re going out today too?”
Luis checked his Rolex — a tenth-anniversary gift Juana had engraved with “Forever together,” a phrase that now brought a bitter smile to her lips.
“Meeting with investors for the Santa Fe project. Don’t wait for me for dinner.”
Juana nodded, maintaining her composure while a knot formed in her throat.

Three months ago, she would have believed that excuse without question. Before she found that message on Luis’s phone. Before she began noticing the subtle changes — the late arrivals, the unfamiliar perfume, the phone calls he took while stepping away from her.
“Good luck,” she murmured, applying one final coat of mascara.

When the front door shut, Juana waited exactly five minutes before picking up her Hermès bag and leaving the apartment. There was no lunch with friends — it was surveillance, as it had been for the past three weeks.

Luis’s Mercedes rolled down Paseo de la Reforma, unaware that Juana’s Audi was following him at a discreet distance.

The Lomas de Chapultepec neighborhood, with its tree-lined streets and mansions hidden behind tall walls, welcomed Luis as he parked in front of a modern house with minimalist lines. Juana stopped a few houses back, watching as her husband typed a code into the electric gate before disappearing inside.

With trembling fingers, Juana noted the address on her phone. This time, she had gotten farther than on previous occasions, when she had only confirmed that Luis wasn’t where he claimed to be. The discovery should have devastated her — but instead, something else was growing inside: a cold, calculated determination.

Back at her apartment, Juana sat in front of her computer. As a lawyer specializing in commercial law, she knew how to investigate. In less than an hour, she had identified the owner of the residence: Adriana Cortés, 34 years old, interior designer. Her professional profile showed collaborations with Luis’s architecture firm on several projects.

The pieces fit together with painful precision. Juana closed the laptop and poured herself a glass of red wine. No tears came to her eyes. Instead, her analytical mind began to draw up a plan. This wouldn’t be an ordinary confrontation. It wouldn’t be the typical scandal that would feed the gossip of their social circle for weeks.

If Luis had built an elaborate lie, she would design a devastating truth.

That night, when Luis returned home smelling of expensive cologne and with an evasive gaze, Juana greeted him with a calm smile and a prepared dinner. While he spun tales of fictional meetings with imaginary investors, she nodded and asked for details, storing each lie as ammunition for what was to come.

“I’m thinking of going back to private practice,” Juana mentioned casually as she cleared the plates.
“So many years at the corporate firm have kept me away from direct client work.”
Luis seemed genuinely surprised, and for a moment, Juana glimpsed the man she had once fallen in love with.
“Are you sure? You always said you preferred corporate work.”

“People change, Luis,” she replied, holding his gaze.
“Sometimes we discover sides of ourselves we didn’t even know existed.”

That night, lying beside the sleeping body of the man who had once been her life partner, Juana remained awake, planning every detail of what would become her most sophisticated revenge: the truth, served in small, lethal doses.

Herrera & Associates, the architecture firm, occupied two full floors in a corporate building on Reforma. Luis had built his reputation over 15 years, becoming the favored architect of Mexico’s elite. His modern designs, infused with touches of traditional Mexican architecture, were instantly recognizable, and his name appeared regularly in design magazines.

Juana knew that world well. She had accompanied him to business dinners, opening events, and charity galas where Luis would attract new clients. Now, she would use that knowledge for her own purposes.

From a newly created email account, Juana sent a message requesting a meeting with Adriana Cortés, introducing herself as Marina Robles, a businesswoman interested in renovating a boutique hotel in Coyoacán.

She knew that a project of such magnitude would immediately attract the firm’s attention—especially that of the interior designer who shared more than just professional projects with her husband. The reply arrived the next day: Adriana would personally handle the initial consultation. The meeting was scheduled for Friday at 11 a.m.

Over the next three days, Juana immersed herself in creating the identity of Marina Robles. She bought a short, reddish-brown wig, green contact lenses, and studied photos of boutique hotels to speak with authority on the subject. She practiced a slightly altered accent, with inflections suggesting a northern Mexican origin.

On Friday, as Luis left early to supervise a construction site in Condesa, Juana meticulously transformed into Marina. The reflection in the mirror showed a stranger—sophisticated, confident, with an air of authority that inspired instant trust. At 10:45 a.m., Marina Robles walked through the glass doors of Herrera & Associates.

The receptionist registered her without a trace of recognition, despite having seen her at numerous corporate events as the boss’s wife.
“Miss Cortés will be with you shortly,” the young woman said with a professional smile.
Seated in the waiting area, Juana observed the flow of employees.

Some of them had known her for years, but none seemed suspicious. Photographs of past projects adorned the walls. In one of them, Luis and Juana were smiling at the opening of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Monterrey, one of her husband’s most acclaimed designs.
“Ms. Robles?”
A female voice interrupted her thoughts.

Juana turned to come face-to-face with Adriana Cortés. She was even more beautiful in person—tall, slender, with black hair tied in an elegant bun that emphasized her high cheekbones. She wore a cream-colored suit that reflected impeccable taste.
“Miss Robles, please,” Juana corrected with a calculated smile as she extended her hand.
“I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me personally.”

Adriana led her to a meeting room with panoramic views of the city. On the mahogany table were catalogs, material samples, and a tablet, which Adriana used to project images onto the wall screen.
“I’ve reviewed your request, and it seems like a fascinating project,” Adriana began with professional enthusiasm.
“The renovation of colonial houses into boutique hotels is one of our specialties.”

For 40 minutes, Juana played her role flawlessly. She spoke knowledgeably about architectural styles, asked relevant questions, and showed she had a substantial budget.

Each time Adriana mentioned Luis as the lead architect who would personally oversee the project, Juana nodded with feigned interest.
“Your work with architect Herrera seems very close,” Juana said casually while flipping through a catalog.
A nearly imperceptible blush colored Adriana’s cheeks.

“Mr. Herrera and I have collaborated on numerous projects. His vision complements my interior design approach perfectly.”
“I see,” Juana smiled.
“Close collaborations can be very productive.”

The meeting ended with Adriana promising to send a preliminary proposal the following week. Juana—as Marina Robles—expressed her desire to meet architect Herrera personally before making a final decision.
“Of course,” Adriana assured her.
“I’ll schedule a meeting with him. I’m sure you’ll be impressed by his ideas.”

As they said goodbye in the lobby, Juana deliberately dropped a remark:
“I’ve heard that Mr. Herrera is a married man. Does his wife also work in the firm?”
The question caught Adriana off guard, and her expression briefly tensed.

“Mrs. Herrera is a corporate lawyer,” she replied in a neutral tone.
“She’s not involved with the firm.”
“What a shame,” Juana murmured.
“I’ve always believed couples who work together have a special connection.”

With that seed planted, Juana walked away, knowing her plan was only just beginning.

The next phase would require surgical precision—and, above all, absolute control over her emotions. The perfect opportunity arose two weeks later.
Luis announced that he would be traveling to Guadalajara for three days to oversee a project, but Juana had already checked the firm’s official schedule—and there was no such trip.
The lie was so elaborate it even included a hotel reservation, which Luis had shown her as proof.

“I’ll miss you,” Juana lied, kissing him on the cheek as he loaded his luggage into the car. As soon as Luis’s Mercedes disappeared down the street, Juana activated the next step of her plan. She called Adriana’s private number, which she had obtained from the business card during their meeting.

“Miss Cortés, this is Marina Robles,” she said calmly.
“I’m sorry for the unexpected call, but I’m seriously considering your proposal and would like to discuss a few additional details. Would it be possible to meet today?”

There was a brief hesitation on the other end of the line.
“Today is complicated. I have personal commitments.”
“I understand,” Juana replied with a tone that suggested disappointment.
“That’s unfortunate. I was thinking of fast-tracking the timeline and increasing the initial budget.”

The silence that followed confirmed that the bait had been taken.
“I could meet you at my house this afternoon,” Adriana finally said.
“I have some materials there that might interest you.”
“Perfect. Would 5 p.m. work?”

The address Adriana gave was exactly the same one Juana had written down weeks ago. The pieces of the puzzle were fitting together with almost poetic precision. At 5:05 p.m., Marina Robles rang the bell of the residence in Lomas de Chapultepec. This time, her transformation was even more meticulous—her hair styled in an elegant bun, sophisticated makeup, and a black dress that radiated power and refinement.

Adriana opened the door with a professional smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She was dressed more casually than at the office—tight jeans and a turquoise silk blouse that accentuated her slender figure.
“Come in, Miss Robles,” she said, guiding her toward a living room exquisitely decorated with a blend of contemporary design and Mexican craftsmanship.

Juana scanned the space, taking in every detail. Carefully framed photos of Adriana in various international destinations, architecture books on the shelves, and what interested her most—subtle signs of a man’s presence. A half-finished glass of whiskey on a side table, a man’s jacket discreetly hanging on the coat rack.

The unmistakable scent of Luis’s cologne.

“You have a beautiful home,” Juana commented, accepting the glass of white wine Adriana offered.
“Do you live alone?”
A flicker of discomfort crossed Adriana’s face.
“Yes, although I receive visitors frequently,” she replied, walking over to a table where she had arranged material samples and blueprints.

“I’ve prepared some additional options for your project.”

For half an hour, they carried on a professional conversation about designs, budgets, and timelines. Juana played her role to perfection, waiting for the precise moment to launch the next phase of her plan.

The opportunity came when the sound of a shower upstairs drifted down to the living room.

Adriana tried to mask her nervousness by slightly raising her voice.
“As I was saying, these handcrafted tiles from Puebla would give an authentic touch—”
“It seems you’re not alone after all,” Juana interrupted with an enigmatic smile.

Adriana visibly tensed but maintained her composure.
“A friend stopped by briefly,” she explained in a controlled tone.
“I asked him to wait upstairs while I handled our meeting.”

The sound of the shower stopped. Juana looked at her watch with deliberate slowness.
“Perhaps we should continue another time. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your visitor.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Adriana insisted, clearly uncomfortable.
“We can finish our conversation—”

A noise on the stairs cut her off. Both women turned toward the hallway, where Luis, with wet hair, dressed only in pants and a white T-shirt, had frozen upon seeing the two women in the room.

“Adriana…” his voice was strained.

“Luis, this is Marina Robles, the client I told you about,” Adriana blurted out, panic rising in her eyes.
“Marina, this is architect Luis Herrera.”

Juana rose slowly, savoring the moment she had orchestrated with such precision. With deliberate movements, she removed her green contact lenses and brown wig, revealing her true identity.

Luis’s face turned pale, as if he had seen a ghost.
Adriana, confused, looked back and forth between the two of them.
“He’s in the shower. Do you want to wait for him?” Juana quoted in an icy voice.
“Such a kind offer. But it won’t be necessary. We already know each other quite well, don’t we, Luis?”

“Juana…” Luis could barely speak.
“I can explain,” Adriana interrupted, realization dawning on her face.
“You’re his wife… for 20 years?”
“Correct,” Juana confirmed, her calm almost chilling.
“Although it seems the last few months have been… shared.”

The silence that followed was so thick it could be cut with a knife.
Luis, trapped between both women, looked as if he had aged ten years in a matter of seconds.

“Adriana, let me speak to my wife alone,” he finally pleaded.
“Your wife?” Adriana’s voice trembled.
“You told me you were separated. That the divorce was imminent. That you were only keeping up appearances for professional reasons.”

Juana gave a bitter smile.
“How strange… he never mentioned anything to me about a separation or divorce. In fact, just last night, we were planning our anniversary trip to Greece.”

Luis took a step toward Juana, but she raised a hand to stop him.
“Don’t bother explaining. I understand the situation perfectly,” she said coldly.
“But there’s something Adriana should know as well.”

From her bag, Juana pulled out a folder and placed it on the table.

“What is this?” Luis asked, the fear clear in his voice.
“The truth,” Juana replied.
“Or more specifically, the truth about your finances — about how you’ve been diverting funds from the firm to personal accounts, about the fictitious projects you’ve been billing, about the client money that never made it into the official accounts.”

Luis’s face drained of the little color that remained.
Adriana, stunned, took the folder with trembling hands and began reviewing the documents.

“You’re a corporate lawyer,” Luis muttered.
“You know this is confidential. It’s illegal for you to access this information.”
“Illegal?” Juana let out a humorless laugh.
“Interesting that you’re concerned about legality now.”

“These documents weren’t obtained as your wife, Luis. I got them as a board member of Constructora Azteca — your most important client. The same company that commissioned an external audit three months ago when budget irregularities were discovered in your projects.”

The revelation landed like a bomb.

Adriana set the documents down, her expression shifting from confusion to horror.
“Is this true, Luis?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“Have you been embezzling funds?”

Luis collapsed onto the couch, defeated.
“You don’t understand…” he muttered.
“These last few years have been hard. The competition is brutal. Margins are shrinking.”

“Margins are shrinking?” Juana repeated with disdain.
“Meanwhile, you bought a 100,000 peso Rolex, a brand-new Mercedes, and apparently financed a second home for your mistress.”

Adriana backed away from Luis as if he were contagious.
“You told me you paid for this place with your personal savings,” she whispered.
“That you wanted to build a future for us.”

Juana picked up her wig and headed for the door.
“You two have a lot to talk about, it seems. As for me, I have a meeting first thing tomorrow morning with the board of Constructora Azteca and the Legal Department. I’ll be handing over copies of all these documents…”

“Unless—”
Luis looked up, a mix of pleading and terror in his eyes.

“Unless what?”
“Unless tomorrow at 9 o’clock sharp there is a signed divorce agreement on my desk, ceding 70% of our shared assets and renouncing any future claims.”

With those words, Juana left the house, leaving behind the rubble of what she had once believed to be a solid marriage.

That Friday night, the restaurant Pujol—considered one of the best in Mexico City—buzzed with activity.

At a discreet table in a privileged corner, Juana, elegantly dressed in a deep red tailored suit, shared dinner with her closest friends, Teresa and Claudia.

“So he signed without protest?” asked Teresa, leaning over her glass of red wine.

Juana nodded, a serene smile forming on her lips.

“At 8:45 the next morning, the document was on my desk when I arrived, along with the keys to the Mercedes and a note of apology I didn’t even bother to read.”

Three months had passed since the confrontation at Adriana’s house. The divorce had been finalized with unusual speed thanks to Luis’s total cooperation—he had left the country a week later.

According to rumors, he had settled in Costa Rica, trying to rebuild his career far from the scandal that was about to explode in Mexico.

“And the mistress?” inquired Claudia while tasting the mole negro she had ordered.

“Adriana resigned from the firm the same day,” Juana explained. “She contacted me a week later, wanting to talk. We met at a café in Condesa.”

Juana vividly remembered that meeting. Adriana had arrived on time, with dark circles under her eyes and a defeated expression that contrasted sharply with the confident woman she had once known at the firm.

“She wanted to apologize,” Juana continued.

“She swore to me that Luis had told her we were separated, that we were only keeping up appearances. I believed her. It was clear she had been deceived as well.”

“Did you tell her about the documents, about the fraud?” asked Teresa.

Juana shook her head.

“It wasn’t necessary. She had already started to suspect. When she reviewed the firm’s records after our confrontation, she found more irregularities. It was she who filed a formal complaint with the Anti-Corruption Prosecutor’s Office.”

The three friends fell silent as the waiter served the main course. When he walked away, Claudia stared at Juana.

“Weren’t you afraid of being discovered—of the legal consequences—during your plan?”

Juana pondered the question while carefully cutting a piece of fish.

“Fear was present every minute,” she finally admitted. “But you know, I discovered that fear can be a powerful engine when you channel it correctly.”

“For 20 years, I built my identity around being the wife of Luis Herrera. When that identity was threatened, I had to rediscover who I really was.”

“And who are you?” Teresa asked, genuinely curious.

Juana smiled—this time with genuine warmth.

“I am Juana Méndez, a corporate lawyer specialized in commercial law, newly named partner at Garza & Associates, owner of a penthouse in Polanco and a Mercedes that I drive myself—and most importantly, a woman who is no longer afraid of being alone.”

The three of them raised their glasses for a toast.

The clinking of glasses seemed to seal a pact of renewal.

“You know what’s the most ironic thing?” Juana added after a sip of wine. “Luis always reproached me for being too predictable, too conservative, that I lacked passion and adventure. I think my little performance as Marina Robles would have disproved that theory.”

Laughter filled the table. The conversation drifted to other topics—their professional projects, a planned trip to Oaxaca next month, the new exhibition at the Tamayo Museum.

As they left the restaurant and waited for their respective cars, Teresa hugged Juana tightly.
“I’m proud of you,” she whispered.
“Not for how you handled Luis, but for how you’re handling yourself now.”

Under the starry sky of Mexico City, Juana took a deep breath of the night air. The pain hadn’t completely disappeared. She doubted it ever would. Betrayals leave scars that time softens but never fully erases.

However, she had discovered a fundamental truth—that life keeps moving forward, transforming into something different, but not necessarily worse.

As she drove home along Paseo de la Reforma, the city lights sparkling around her like jewels, Juana turned on the radio. An old song by Maná was playing: Clavado en un bar.

She smiled at the irony and turned up the volume.

Her phone buzzed with a notification. It was a message from Adriana.
“Can we talk? There’s something important I need to show you.”

Juana stopped the car at a red light and stared at the message. Through their recent meetings, she had come to see Adriana as a smart and determined woman who, like herself, had been a victim of Luis’s elaborate lies.

An unexpected alliance had formed between them—built on mutual respect and the shared understanding of having loved the same man, though different versions of him.

“Tomorrow, 10 a.m., Artemisia Café in Roma Norte,” Juana replied just as the light turned green.

As she accelerated toward the future, with the city unfolding before her like a canvas of possibilities, Juana thought about how far she had come since that morning she discovered Luis’s infidelity.

The path hadn’t been easy, but each step had brought her closer to a version of herself she never imagined—stronger, more authentic, freer.

And perhaps that was the sweetest revenge of all.