“Smile, love. You’re live.”
Marcos ‘s voice pierced me like a knife. The phone in his hand illuminated the night sky over the pine forest outside Girona , while the rough rope dug into my wrists, tied to the tree trunk. I was nine months pregnant. Every breath was a struggle.
The sun had just set, leaving a damp chill that seeped into my bones. I tried to move, but the weight of my belly and the malicious knot of the rope prevented me. The baby stirred restlessly inside me, as if it too knew that something was terribly wrong.
Standing before me were Marcos , my husband, and Carla , his lover. She approached slowly, savoring every step. A ring gleamed on her left hand.
“Do you like it?” he mocked. “The same one he promised you.”
On the mobile screen, the red LIVE icon was flashing. Comments were pouring in.
—“Cheap drama.”
—“She’s faking it.”
—“She probably wants attention.”
“Please…” my voice trembled. “Marcos, he’s your son. If you don’t care about me, think about the baby.”
Marcos let out a dry laugh.
“I don’t want that child,” she said without blinking. “And today the world is going to see how crazy you are.”
Carla read the comments aloud, enjoying every cruel word.
—“Look at her, pathetic.” —He looked up at me—. See, Emilia ? Nobody is on your side.
Tears blurred my vision. Not for myself. For the creature I carried inside.
“This is a mistake…” I whispered. “They’re going to pay for this.”
Carla leaned forward in front of the camera.
“Let me be clear,” she announced. “This is what happens to women who don’t know when to quit.”
I closed my eyes, defeated.
Then it happened.
Marcos’s phone vibrated sharply. A different sound. Not a comment. A priority notification .
Her smile vanished instantly.
“What… what is this?” he murmured, pale.
Carla leaned closer to look at the screen. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
From the darkness of the forest, a firm voice broke the silence:
— Turn off the transmission. Right now.
And I knew, in that second, that the game was over.
Who was watching… and why did Marcos look like he was about to collapse?
Marcos dropped his phone. He didn’t turn it off. It just slipped out of his fingers.
“No… it can’t be…” he stammered.
Carla took a step back.
“Who are you?” he shouted into the darkness. “This is private!”
A figure slowly emerged from among the pines. She wore a dark jacket, her hair was pulled back, and she stood upright. In her hand, something metallic reflected the light from the mobile phone still recording on the ground.
A plaque .
— Lieutenant Laura Morales, National Police — she said in a clear voice —. And this is a crime in progress.
I felt the air returning to my lungs.
“Mom…?” I whispered, incredulous.
She hadn’t looked at me yet. Her eyes were fixed on Marcos.
“Kidnapping, threats, gender violence, illegal dissemination, and endangering a pregnant woman,” she listed. “Did you really think no one would see this?”
Carla was trembling.
“We… it was just a joke…” he tried. “People do worse things on the internet.”
Laura took another step closer. Her tone didn’t rise. It lowered.
“My daughter stopped answering her phone an hour ago.” She picked up Marcos’s phone from the floor. “And this live stream appeared in an internal police group chat before it even reached a thousand viewers.”
Marcos fell to his knees.
—Laura, please… —she begged—. We can fix this.
“No,” she replied. “This can’t be fixed. This needs to be judged .”
He pulled out his weapon, kept it pointed at the ground, but visible.
—Hands up. Both of you. Now.
Carla burst into tears.
—Mark, do something!
He didn’t move.
Sirens began to be heard in the distance.
Laura approached me first, cut the rope with firm hands, and held me when my legs gave way.
—Relax, Emilia. It’s over now.
“The baby…” I gasped. “It hurts…”
—The ambulance is on its way. Hang in there with me.
Minutes later, the forest was filled with blue lights. Officers handcuffed Marcos and Carla as live viewers watched the broadcast become evidence in court.
“This… this can’t be happening…” Carla sobbed.
“It’s happening,” an officer said. “And it was all recorded.”
As they lifted me onto the stretcher, I saw Marcos for the last time. There was no arrogance left. Only fear.
But there was still something to face.
The trial.
And the public truth.
The sound of sirens mingled with my ragged breathing as they carefully lifted me into the ambulance. The forest that minutes before had been the scene of humiliation and terror was now filled with blue lights, officers, and official cameras. Marcos and Carla remained handcuffed, sitting on the ground, avoiding eye contact with me.
“Calm down, Emilia,” said the doctor. “Let’s go to the hospital. The baby is holding on.”
I felt my mother Laura Morales’ hand squeezing mine.
“You’re safe now,” she whispered. “They’ll never touch you again.”
Childbirth
Hours later, at the hospital in Girona, the pain turned into hope. The delivery was difficult; the stress had caused premature contractions, but when I heard my son cry, the world made sense again.
“It’s a boy,” the doctor said, smiling. “He’s stable.”
I cried like I hadn’t cried in months.
“You will be called Daniel ,” I told him, stroking his tiny hand. “Because you survived.”
My mother watched silently, her eyes shining. Not as a police officer. As a grandmother.
The final fall
The trial was not long in coming. The live stream, downloaded and certified as evidence, was played in the courtroom. No one spoke. No one laughed. Every cruel word, every taunt, every laugh was exposed.
The judge was clear.
—This was no joke. It was a planned and public act of violence.
Marcos avoided looking at me. Carla cried, but no one comforted her anymore.
The sentences were final:
Marcos received several years in prison for kidnapping, threats, gender-based violence, and endangering an unborn child.Carla was convicted of complicity and disseminating violence.
The transmission they tried to use to destroy me became their downfall.
Heal
The months passed. Daniel grew strong. Every time he breathed on my chest, I remembered that we survived together.
I went to therapy. I went back to work. I learned that healing doesn’t mean forgetting, but rather ceasing to live in fear.
One afternoon, sitting in a park, I watched Daniel asleep in his stroller as the sun gently set.
“Do you regret anything?” my mother asked, sitting down next to me.
—Yes —I replied—. If I hadn’t left earlier. But not if I had survived.
She smiled.
—That’s bravery.
The last attempt
A letter arrived from prison. It was from Marcos. I didn’t open it. I tore it up without reading it.
Not out of spite.
Because I no longer had the right to my story.
A new beginning
Months later, I was walking down a quiet street in Girona, carrying Daniel in my arms, feeling something I had forgotten: peace.
The past didn’t disappear. But it stopped controlling me.
What began as a cruel broadcast ended as a public lesson.
Me too…
I stopped being a victim.
I became a mother.
A survivor.
A free woman.
