JHS Construcción

JHS Construcción Somos una Empresa joven que nace con base en la imperante necesidad de trabajos de calidad y excelencia en el mantenimiento residencial.

No obstante, contamos con la experiencia necesaria que requieren y merecen nuestros clientes. A partir de esta premisa, hemos enfocado esfuerzos conjuntos en ampliar nuestros horizontes hacia la Construcción y el Mantenimiento Integral dedicado a todo tipo de inmuebles. Garantizamos excelentes resultados y precios justos, guiándonos bajo nuestra filosofía "Seguridad primero, calidad siempre". Con ello nos permitimos ofrecerle nuestra amplia gama de servicios.

The moment our honeymoon cruise set sail from Florida, my husband locked the cabin door, cornered me with an aluminum ba...
24/08/2026

The moment our honeymoon cruise set sail from Florida, my husband locked the cabin door, cornered me with an aluminum baseball bat. "This is how my dad kept my mom in line," he grinned. I didn't scream. I just cracked my knuckles. He forgot to read the part of my resume where I served as a Marine Corps hand-to-hand combat instructor. In one fluid motion, the bat was mine, and his face was...

I spent four years serving in the United States Marine Corps, training others in hand-to-hand combat. When my military career ended, I made myself one promise.

That version of me would stay in the past forever.

Combat boots were replaced with designer heels.

Scarred fists became perfectly manicured hands.

I wanted nothing more than a quiet, ordinary life.

Then I met Gregory Hartman.

He appeared to be everything I had ever hoped for, successful, charismatic, attentive, and capable of making me believe I was the center of his world.

That illusion ended the second the door to our honeymoon suite locked behind us.

The latch clicked.

I turned around.

The warm smile I had fallen in love with had vanished.

The man standing in front of me wore an expression I had never seen before, cold, emotionless, and unsettling.

Outside, our cruise ship continued gliding farther away from the Florida coastline.

“Well...” Gregory said quietly. “Now we’re finally alone.”

I forced a polite smile.

“Should we open the champagne?”

He ignored the question.

Without a word, he walked across the cabin, knelt beside his expensive leather suitcase, and slowly unfastened the polished brass locks.

I expected him to pull out a silk robe.

Maybe another extravagant wedding surprise.

Instead, he reached inside and removed an old aluminum baseball bat.

Every muscle in my body tightened.

“What... is that?”

“My father gave it to me before the wedding,” Gregory replied with a calm smile that somehow made everything even worse. “He always said marriage is like breaking a wild horse. If you don’t establish control from the beginning, you’ll spend the rest of your life chasing it.”

He took another slow step toward me.

Beyond the balcony windows, Miami’s skyline had almost disappeared.

Inside the suite, there was nowhere left to retreat.

“You’ve always had a strong personality, Ashlynn,” he continued. “That’s actually one of the reasons I married you.”

He paused.

“But now it’s time you learn where your place is.”

He looked completely confident.

He expected me to cry.

He expected me to panic.

He expected the polished corporate executive he believed he had molded over the past year.

What he never bothered to learn...

Was that long before I ever wore designer heels, I had spent four years in the United States Marine Corps.

As the aluminum bat slowly rose into the air, something inside me shifted.

The fear didn’t grow.

It disappeared.

My heartbeat slowed.

My breathing became steady.

Every lesson I thought I had buried years ago quietly came back.

For the first time since that cabin door locked, I stopped seeing my husband.

I started evaluating a threat.

My eyes settled on his center of balance, automatically calculating distance, timing, and every opening in his stance.

I cracked my knuckles.

The sharp popping sound echoed through the silent suite.

Then I shifted my weight onto the balls of my feet and settled naturally into a low tactical stance.

“This is how my dad kept my mom in line,” Gregory growled. “Let’s find out how tough you really are.”

With a snarl, he charged forward, swinging the aluminum bat in a hard horizontal arc aimed directly at my ribs.

My body reacted before conscious thought ever caught up.

I stepped just outside the path of the swing.

The bat sliced through the air only inches from my chest.

Before Gregory even realized he had missed, I moved inside his reach.

My left arm trapped his extended elbow.

I rotated my hips.

Then I drove the heel of my right palm upward with explosive force into...
Part 2 in comment below!

My millionaire husband brought a homeless elderly woman into our home and ordered me, “You bathe her. I don’t want the s...
24/08/2026

My millionaire husband brought a homeless elderly woman into our home and ordered me, “You bathe her. I don’t want the staff doing it.” Disgusted, I put on gloves, but as I cleaned her shoulder, I noticed a crescent-shaped birthmark. I dropped the sponge, pulled out a locket I had kept hidden for 20 years, and burst into tears…

PART 1

“I want you to bathe her in our tub. And please, don't call the staff. Do it yourself.”

I thought my husband had completely lost his mind.

My name is Mariana. I’m thirty-six years old, and until that afternoon, I believed I knew every single thing about the man I’d been married to for fifteen years. Alejandro owned a series of major commercial construction firms across Chicago. He had more money than we could ever spend, but he possessed a habit that sometimes drove me to my wit's end: whenever he set his mind on a charitable crusade, nothing on earth could stop him.

That week, he had decided to personally volunteer at a soup kitchen near the bus terminal downtown. He claimed he was tired of just writing big corporate checks for photo opportunities and wanted to meet the people receiving aid face-to-face.

I didn’t share his sudden enthusiasm.

“Some people genuinely need a hand up,” I had scoffed that morning over coffee. “But plenty of others just prefer living that way.”

How easy those words rolled off my tongue from the comfort of my climate-controlled home, with a cook preparing breakfast and a private driver waiting outside. I understood nothing back then.

Late that afternoon, I returned from a lunch date with friends to find Alejandro standing in our grand foyer alongside a woman who looked as though she had lived on the streets for decades.

Her hair was a tangled, matted mess, her skin was caked in layers of dark grime, and she wore a threadbare coat that emitted an odor so foul I instinctively covered my nose and stepped back.

“What on earth is she doing in our house?” I demanded.

The woman quickly lowered her eyes, shrinking into herself.

Alejandro answered with an irritating, unbothered calm. “Her name is Lucy.”

“Is that her name, or did you just decide to name her?”

“She doesn’t remember her real name, Mariana.”

I thought he was making a sick joke.

The woman quietly explained in a raspy voice that she had spent twenty years moving between transit stations, parks, and abandoned buildings. She remembered waking up two decades ago amidst the debris of a construction site, but nothing before that. No family, no last name, no home address.

Nothing.

Alejandro had met her while serving soup that afternoon.

“I’m going to help her track down her identity papers and find a decent place to live,” Alejandro announced firmly. “Until then, she’s staying in our guest suite.”

I felt my blood boil. “In our home?!”

“Yes.”

“What’s next, Alejandro? Are you turning our guest rooms into a shelter?”
The woman took a timid step backward toward the front door. “I don’t want to cause trouble. I can leave.”

Alejandro caught her arm gently. “You aren't going anywhere.” Then he turned his gaze to me, his eyes sharp. “Mariana, I was just filling the garden tub upstairs. Go help her wash up.”

I went completely rigid. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“We have a full house staff, Alejandro!”

“Exactly. If you truly believe helping people is important, start by treating her like a human being instead of a mess someone else has to clean up.”

His words stung because I knew they were aimed straight at my arrogance.

Muttering furious insults under my breath, I led the woman upstairs to the master bath. I pulled on heavy rubber cleaning gloves before turning to face her.

“Take those rags off and put them directly in that trash bag,” I said coldly. “We’re throwing everything away.”

“I can wash myself,” she offered in a surprisingly polite, cultured tone.

“I’d prefer to make sure you don't ruin the marble.”

Even now, my heart aches with shame when I remember how cruelly I spoke to her.

The woman stepped into the warm water, and almost instantly, the clear bath turned a dark, murky brown. I took a soft sponge, and forcing myself to swallow my disgust, I began scrubbing her right shoulder.

As years of dirt lifted away, something caught my eye beneath the grime.

A tiny, crescent-shaped birthmark.

The sponge slipped from my fingers, splashing into the water.

The air evaporated from my lungs...
Part 2 in comment below....

"I had barely survived giving birth to our triplet sons when my husband walked into my hospital room holding another wom...
24/08/2026

"I had barely survived giving birth to our triplet sons when my husband walked into my hospital room holding another woman's hand. She flaunted a black Birkin bag like she'd already claimed my life, while he threw divorce papers onto my bed and sneered, ""Look at you. Who could ever want you now?"" He thought I had lost everything that day. He had no idea that within forty-eight hours, the people he underestimated would destroy everything he thought he owned.
I had three newborn sons sleeping beside me when my husband walked into my hospital room holding another woman’s hand. Forty minutes earlier, a nurse had told me I was lucky to be alive; now Ethan looked at my bloodless face and decided it was the perfect moment to bury me.

My body still shook from hemorrhage, and every breath pulled against the fresh incision across my abdomen. I could barely lift my arms to touch the boys. Ethan saw it all, and instead of mercy, satisfaction settled across his face.

Vanessa Cole entered first, tall, polished, and smiling beneath perfectly curled hair. A black Birkin hung from her wrist like a trophy.

Ethan tossed a folder onto my blanket.

“Sign.”

I stared at the divorce papers, then at the man I had loved for eight years.

“You brought her here?”

Vanessa laughed softly. “Don’t be dramatic, Claire. Stress isn’t good for the babies.”

My sons—Noah, Caleb, and Luke—were less than a day old.

Ethan leaned over the bed. “Look at you. Who could ever want you now?”

The words landed harder than the emergency surgery.

He had spent my entire pregnancy disappearing into “client meetings,” freezing joint accounts, and telling me I was paranoid whenever I asked why our company’s numbers no longer matched the reports sent to me. I had suspected an affair.

I had not expected an ex*****on.

Vanessa set her bag beside my flowers. “We’ll be moving into the lake house. Ethan says you won’t need something that large.”

“That house belonged to my grandmother,” I said.

Ethan smirked. “Everything belongs to the marriage until a judge says otherwise.”

That was his mistake.

He still believed I had been merely his wife.

Before our marriage, I had been a forensic accountant. My father, Daniel Mercer, had built Mercer Holdings from a two-truck logistics business into a national company. When I married Ethan, Dad quietly placed my inheritance, several commercial properties, and controlling shares of Mercer Logistics into a protected family trust.

Ethan knew about the trust.

He did not know its exact terms.

He also did not know that three months earlier, when I noticed unexplained transfers from a subsidiary Ethan managed, I began copying everything.

Invoices. Wire instructions. Shell-company payments.

And one familiar name.

Vanessa Cole.

I picked up the pen.

Ethan smiled.

Then I signed only the acknowledgment of receipt.

His smile disappeared.

“I’ll have counsel review the rest.”

“You don’t have counsel,” he snapped.

The hospital door opened.

My father stepped inside with our family attorney, Rebecca Shaw.

Dad looked at the divorce papers, then at Ethan.

His voice was almost gentle.

“Actually,” he said, “she has an entire legal department.”...
Part 2 in comment below...

The billionaire pretended to go to Europe... But what he saw on the hidden cameras between his housekeeper and his daugh...
01/08/2026

The billionaire pretended to go to Europe... But what he saw on the hidden cameras between his housekeeper and his daughters left him frozen.
The billionaire turned off the lights in his mansion, picked up his suitcase, and kissed his daughters goodbye, as if nothing had happened.
"I'll only be gone for a few days," he told them with a calm smile. "Be good."
The girls hugged him tightly.
They had no idea he was lying.
The plane never took off.
There was no business trip.
No Europe.
No hotel suite waiting for him abroad.
Instead, less than an hour after his car left through the front door, the most powerful man in the city returned home through the back door, in complete silence, with only his head of security by his side.
He wasn't there to surprise anyone.
He was there to observe.
Because the poison had already been planted.
The night before, his fiancée had leaned across the table, lowered her voice, and whispered something that had stuck in his mind.
"You trust that maid too much," Patricia had said softly. "She's stealing from you. And worse... she's manipulating your daughters." That phrase haunted him all night.
Not because he immediately believed it.
Because a part of him feared it was true.
For years, Emiliano Duarte had trusted the young woman who cleaned his house and looked after his daughters when he was away. Rosa had always been quiet, careful, respectful. The kind of person most wealthy families never saw. She moved through the house like a shadow, never seeking attention, never meddling where she didn't belong.
But Patricia had started making small comments.
At first, they seemed harmless.
Then they began to accumulate. “I realized one of my bracelets wasn’t where I’d left it.”
“The girls seem more attached to her than to anyone else.”
“She’s too comfortable here.”
“She knows too much.”
“She acts like she doesn’t exist, and those are the dangerous ones.”
At first, Emiliano had ignored it.
But doubt is strange.
It doesn’t break down the door.
It slips through the cracks.
And once inside, it starts to change everything.
Soon he found himself reliving moments that had never bothered him before.
The way Rosa knew exactly how Martina liked her sandwiches.
The way Daniela would run to meet her first thing after school.
The way both girls seemed more at ease with Rosa than with anyone else in the house.
Before Patricia’s accusations, those things would have seemed like kindness.
Afterward, they looked different.
Suspicious.
Threatening.
Mistakes. So Emiliano made a decision.
During dinner, he announced a last-minute trip to Europe.
“I have to leave tomorrow morning,” he said, barely touching his food.
Daniela looked up first.
“Again?” She didn’t say it aloud, but the disappointment in her voice resonated more strongly than if she had shouted.
Martina remained silent. She simply gripped her spoon and stared at her plate.
For a moment, Emiliano felt a knot in his stomach.
Guilt, perhaps.
But he ignored it.
“Just a few days,” he said.
Patricia smiled beside him, a serene and elegant smile, and took his hand under the table like the perfect wife.
Rosa stood near the kitchen entrance, silently clearing the table, her expression unreadable.
The next morning, the driver loaded Emiliano's suitcase into the car.
His daughters hugged him at the door.
"I love you, Dad," Martina whispered.
He kissed both of their foreheads, forced a smile, and got into the car.
As the car drove away, he glanced back once through the tinted window.
The girls stood on the doorstep watching him leave.
Behind them, inside the house, Rosa held a breakfast tray and lowered her gaze respectfully when she noticed him watching her.
It was the scene of an ordinary goodbye.
A father leaving.
A family settling into routine.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except that everything was arranged.
Thirty minutes later, Emiliano had returned.
He entered through a service entrance at the back of the mansion, while the staff believed he was already halfway to the airport.
No footsteps.
No words. Without warning.
His head of security led him down a private corridor to a locked monitoring room, rarely used except for system checks and high-level security reviews.
Inside, a wall of screens illuminated the darkness.
The kitchen.
The foyer.
The formal living room.
The upstairs hallway.
The back garden.
The playroom.
The breakfast nook.
Every angle.
Every corner.
Every little secret scene within the house he had built and financed, and which, somehow, he had never quite come to understand.
"The cameras are live," the guard said quietly.
Emiliano nodded and sat down.
"I want to see what happens when they think I'm gone."
At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Rosa cleared the breakfast table.
The girls finished their milk.
A housekeeper brought up the folded towels.
One of the gardeners crossed the yard. Everything seemed painfully normal.
For a few minutes, Emiliano almost felt foolish.
Maybe Patricia had been wrong.
Maybe he'd let suspicion make him seem smaller than he wanted to be.
Maybe he was sitting in a dark room spying on an innocent woman because fear had weakened him.
Then the front door clicked shut for the last time after the last employee of the morning walked through the hall.
And Patricia appeared in the living room.
The change in her face was instantaneous.
No warm smile.
No refined grace.
No sweet, understanding fiancée demeanor.
It was like watching a mask slip off her face in real time.
Her whole body changed.
The sweetness vanished from her expression, replaced by something colder. Something sharp. Annoyed. Impatient. Cruel.
Emiliano leaned forward.
On the screen, Daniela sat on the rug with an open book in her lap. Martina was beside him, clutching a stuffed rabbit.
Patricia approached slowly.
"What did I tell you about sitting here?" she snapped.
Both girls jumped.
They weren't scared.
Conditioned.
That's what chilled Emiliano's blood.
They weren't children reacting to a raised voice for the first time.
They were children who knew exactly what was coming next.
Daniela closed her book immediately. Martina lowered her gaze.
Patricia snatched the rabbit from the girl's hands and threw it onto the sofa.
"I'm tired of repeating myself," she said. "When your father isn't around, you'll do what I say the first time."
Martina's lip trembled.
Daniela moved a little closer to her sister.
And in the monitoring room, Emiliano held his breath for a moment.
Because his daughters weren't behaving like children being corrected by a future stepmother.
They behaved like children who were afraid of him.
Then Rosa entered the room.
She had probably heard Patricia's voice from the hallway.
She entered carefully, without aggression or confrontation, simply protecting them enough to stand between Patricia and the girls without being noticed.
"Miss Patricia," Rosa said gently, "the girls haven't done anything wrong."
Patricia turned toward her so quickly it almost seemed violent.
"Did I ask for your opinion?"
Rosa remained motionless.
"No, ma'am."
"Then remember your place."
The room fell silent.
On the screen, Daniela had reached out to Martina.
Emiliano stared at that small detail longer than anything else.
Not the argument.
Not Patricia's face.
Not even Rosa's intervention.
It was the way his daughters immediately sought each other out.
As if this had happened before.
As if they already knew how to prepare for it. And suddenly, Emiliano felt nauseous.
Because for all those months, Patricia had been whispering in his ear that Rosa was dangerous... He'd never wondered why his daughters had become quieter.
Why they looked at him with that strange mix of love and distance.
Why the house had started to feel colder long before he admitted it.
Comment YES if you want part two.

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Mexico City

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