I threw myself into two significant acquisitions that year, careful, methodical negotiations that occupied hours I might otherwise have spent dwelling on everything happening in the criminal proceedings running parallel to my professional life. My executive team rallied around me during those months, several of them privately confessing they’d long suspected something was amiss in my marriage, though none had felt it their place to say anything directly until circumstances forced everything into the open. “We just wanted you to know we’re here,” my chief operating officer, Julián Restrepo, told me once, during a particularly difficult week. “Whatever you need, professionally or otherwise, we’re not going anywhere.”
I remember feeling genuinely moved by that particular reassurance, understanding it represented exactly the kind of steady, dependable loyalty I’d once mistakenly believed my marriage had also provided.
I implemented considerably more rigorous confidentiality protocols throughout the company following everything that happened, understanding exactly how much vulnerability Valeria’s unauthorized access had actually created, both personally and professionally.
I used a portion of the mansion’s sale proceeds to establish a small foundation supporting women rebuilding their own financial independence following exactly the kind of manipulative, financially exploitative relationships I’d personally endured, work that felt, given everything I’d survived, particularly meaningful.
