For five years, I was the perfect girlfriend to Leon Castro—beautiful, obedient, and never asking questions. Until that night, when I heard him say with my own ears outside the club: “Vera? Just an easy-to-deceive pet. She remembers to take her pills every time after we’re done.” And in my hand, I was clutching a pregnancy test with two red lines. I didn’t cry, I didn’t confront him, and I didn’t give him a chance to explain. I scheduled an abortion, blocked him everywhere, and then, one early morning, I dragged two suitcases out of town and vanished completely. When he finally found me, I was already sitting outside the operating room. With tears in his eyes, he pulled out the diamond ring and asked if we could start over. My answer to him was the very phrase he had taught me: “If you can’t handle the game, we’re done.”