Netflix didn’t simply release a trailer at three in the morning; it committed an act of psychological warfare so precise, so vicious, that by the time the final frame faded to black the entire Spanish-speaking world (and half the non-Spanish-speaking one) was on the floor gasping for air, because Culpa De Todos, the third and final chapter of the Culpables trilogy that began as Mercedes Ron’s Wattpad phenomenon and ended up conquering the planet, is no longer a promise; it is a threat, a two-minute-and-thirty-eight-second descent into the kind of love that destroys cities, the kind that leaves bodies and hearts in equal ruin, and the first thing you hear after the Netflix logo dissolves is a single heartbeat, slow, deliberate, almost mocking, followed by Noah Morgan’s voice, cracked and trembling the way it hasn’t been since the night she first let Nicholas Leister ruin her life, whispering that she thought love would be enough to save them and she was wrong, so catastrophically wrong that the screen itself seems to bleed, cutting immediately to her standing alone in the nave of a cathedral wearing a wedding dress the colour of midnight, veil torn to shreds by her own hands, mascara carving black rivers down cheeks that used to glow every time Nick looked at her, while the organ plays a funeral arrangement of the song that scored their first kiss in Culpa Mía, the same song that made teenagers worldwide believe toxic could be beautiful, and now the melody is so distorted it sounds like the instrument itself is weeping.

Then the memories hit like shrapnel: the motorcycle from the first film roaring down the Costa del Sol except this time the bike is engulfed in flames and Noah is no longer holding on to Nick, she is falling away from him in slow motion; the infinity-pool kiss from Culpa Tuya that broke the internet now underwater and crimson, bubbles rising from their mouths like final confessions; Nick carrying Noah out of the ocean the night he swore he would burn the world for her, only this time her body is limp in his arms and he is screaming her name into the storm with a desperation that rips the air from your lungs.

The present day slams in without mercy: Noah walking into a courtroom in a blood-red suit sharp enough to cut glass, hair shorn into a ruthless bob that makes her look like vengeance personified, eyes completely dead, and across the aisle sits Nick in handcuffs, wrists bruised, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the tattoo of her name that he swore he would never regret, staring at her the way a drowning man stares at the last piece of driftwood, both salvation and damnation, while the judge’s voice lists charges (conspiracy, extortion, first-degree murder) and the camera lingers on Noah’s trembling hand signing divorce papers, a single tear falling onto the signature and smudging the ink the way their entire future has just been smudged into oblivion.

And then the new players arrive, gliding into frame like beautiful assassins: Valentina Acosta as the mysterious Valentina, all cheekbones and secrets, sliding her hand possessively up Nick’s chest in a nightclub lit like hell’s waiting room; Hugo Catalán as Rafael, the prosecutor whose smile is colder than the metal of the handcuffs and who leans in to whisper something in Noah’s ear that makes her flinch for the first time in the entire trailer; Ana Claudia Talancón returning as Nick’s mother Rafaela but this time with a grief so heavy it has carved new lines into her face, telling her son in a voice that breaks mid-sentence that some sins cannot be forgiven even by mothers.

The sex scenes hit like aftershocks: Nick pressing Noah against the rain-streaked window of the penthouse that used to be theirs, her black dress ripping at the seams, his mouth on her throat while she claws at his back hard enough to draw blood, both of them hating each other so violently that the only way they can still touch is through destruction; a hotel room bathed in red light where Noah straddles someone whose face we don’t see yet but whose hands grip her hips with the same bruising intensity Nick once used, and the camera lingers on the wedding ring she still hasn’t removed spinning on the nightstand like a loaded gun.

The dialogue is pure poison: Nick snarling that he hates her so much it hurts to breathe and yet she is still the only air he has left; Noah laughing, actually laughing, a sound sharp enough to cut diamonds, telling him that hate is just love that forgot how to leave; Rafaela begging her son to let Noah go before he drags them all to hell; Valentina purring that some women are born to be loved and others are born to be lessons.

And the final thirty seconds, the thirty seconds that have already killed millions: Nick and Noah in the rain outside the courthouse, both soaked to the bone, screaming over thunder that drowns everything except the rawness in their voices, Nick grabbing her face and kissing her like he’s trying to crawl back inside the life they lost, Noah kissing him back for one devastating second before shoving him away so hard he stumbles, both of them crying so hard the rain looks gentle in comparison, and then the camera pulls back to reveal that Noah is holding a positive pregnancy test in her shaking hand while Nick stares at it like the world just ended all over again, and the screen cuts to black on Noah’s whispered “Esto es culpa de todos” before the title slams in like a guillotine.

The numbers are apocalyptic: within six hours the trailer had one hundred and twelve million views across all platforms, the hashtag #CulpaDeTodos trending number one in ninety-three countries, TikTok crashing twice under the weight of slow-motion edits set to “Porfa no te vayas” remixes, and Mercedes Ron herself posting a single black square on Instagram with the caption “perdón” because even the author knows she has committed murder.

Sebastián Zurita uploaded a thirty-second black-and-white video of himself staring into the camera without blinking, captioned only with the date 2026, and the comments are a war zone of marriage proposals and death threats. Maite Perroni posted a photo of her hand over her mouth, eyes red, with the words “ya no puedo más” and then deleted her account for twelve hours because the internet was trying to break into her house.

The budget is rumoured to be triple that of Culpa Tuya, the filming locations span Madrid, Miami, and a private island in the Caribbean that had to be shut down for three weeks, and director Domingo González has already warned that the final episode is two hours and forty minutes long and ends on a scene that made half the crew cry during table reads.

We thought we were ready. We thought we had survived the worst this love story could do to us. We were wrong.

Culpa De Todos isn’t coming to close the trilogy. It’s coming to bury us with it.

Early 2026 cannot arrive fast enough, and when it does, none of us are making it out alive.