Chapter 3 - MR. VEGA
I didn’t ask Isabella another question about Mr. Vega that evening.
Not because I didn’t want the answer.
Because I wanted the answer too badly.
There is a mistake people make when they discover someone they love may have been harmed.
They believe urgency means asking everything immediately.
It doesn’t.
Sometimes urgency means knowing when to stop.
Isabella had spent months learning that speaking came with consequences.
I wasn’t going to demand that she unlearn that fear in ten minutes simply because I was desperate for information.
I took her upstairs.
Her old bedroom was still there.
But it did not look like her room anymore.
The pale blue curtains had been replaced by cream ones.
Her photographs were gone.
Her bookshelves had been emptied.
The framed picture of Isabella and her mother, Elena, that had always sat beside the bed was missing.
Elena had died when Isabella was four.
Beatriz had entered our lives almost two years later.
Until that afternoon, I had believed she loved Isabella.
Maybe not with the instinctive devotion Elena had possessed.
But enough.
That belief now felt like evidence of my own stupidity.
Isabella stood in the doorway.
“Where’s my music box?”
I looked at Beatriz.
She was behind us.
“I put some things into storage.”
“Why?”
“The room needed decluttering.”
Isabella stared at the empty dresser.
“My mom gave me that.”
“I know.”
I turned to Beatriz.
“Bring it back.”
“I don’t know exactly where it is.”
“Then find it.”
“Gabriel, we need to talk.”
“We will.”
“Privately.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Are you planning to make every conversation a performance for an eight-year-old?”
“I’m planning to stop having secret conversations about her.”
Isabella looked uncomfortable.
I noticed.
So I crouched beside her.
“Do you remember Aunt Sofia’s house in Estepona?”
She nodded.
My younger sister Sofia lived forty minutes away with her husband and their teenage son.
Isabella adored them.
“Would you like to stay there tonight?”
She looked toward Beatriz.
Then quickly back at me.
“Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
That was enough.
She nodded.
Beatriz immediately objected.
“This is insane.”
I ignored her and called Sofia.
I told her only that Isabella and I needed a place to stay for the night.
My sister heard something in my voice.
She didn’t ask questions.
“Come.”
That was all she said.
Twenty minutes later, Isabella was in the shower.
I stood alone in the upstairs hallway with Beatriz.
This time, I closed the bedroom door so Isabella couldn’t hear us.
Beatriz leaned against the wall.
“You have no idea what you are doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“You’re destabilizing her.”
“You put her in a storage room.”
“She was never locked in there.”
I looked at the sensor records app on my phone.
“You seem very interested in that particular word.”
“What word?”
“Locked.”
She said nothing.
I stepped closer.
“Who is Vega?”
“A contractor.”
“What kind?”
“He looked at the irrigation system.”
“At night?”
Her eyes flickered.
I hadn’t known whether he came at night.
Now I did.
“Isabella never said when he came.”
Beatriz’s face tightened.
I continued.
“So thank you.”
“You’re twisting everything.”
“What irrigation company?”
“I don’t remember.”
“His first name?”
Silence.
“Phone number?”
Silence.
“Invoice?”
Silence.
I almost smiled.
“Expensive villa.”
“Four-hundred-million-euro property portfolio.”
“Dozens of employees.”
“And apparently you invited a contractor into my home repeatedly without knowing his first name, phone number, or company.”
She looked away.
“You sound ridiculous.”
“No.”
“You sound scared.”
That hit.
She pushed away from the wall.
“I am not scared of you.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
I let the silence do the rest.
Her jaw moved.
Then she said, “You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“You neglected your daughter.”
I stared at her.
She stepped closer.
“You disappear.”
“You throw yourself into projects.”
“You tell yourself it’s for Isabella.”
“But do you know what she eats for breakfast?”
“Do you know the name of her math teacher?”
“Do you know which friend stopped inviting her over?”
“Do you know she wakes up at night sometimes because she thinks her mother is calling her?”
Every word cut.
Because some of them were questions I could not answer.
Beatriz saw it.
Her confidence returned.
“I was here.”
“You weren’t.”
“I dealt with the tantrums.”
“The nightmares.”
“The attitude.”
“The entitlement.”
“And now you walk in, see one unpleasant afternoon, and suddenly you’re the hero?”
I wanted to reject every word.
But truth is dangerous because it does not need to be complete to hurt.
I had been absent too often.
My guilt did not make Beatriz innocent.
But it made me vulnerable.
She knew that.
Maybe she had been counting on it.
“You’re right about one thing.”
She paused.
“I have been gone too much.”
Her expression softened slightly.
Then I added, “That ends today.”
Her face changed again.
“You can’t just abandon your company.”
“I own my company.”
“You have obligations.”
“My first obligation is Isabella.”
“That’s convenient now.”
“No.”
“It’s late.”
I turned away.
She grabbed my arm.
“Gabriel.”
I looked down.
She released me.
Then her voice changed.
Softer.
Almost pleading.
“We can fix this.”
I stared at her.
“Fix what?”
“Our family.”
“You need to tell me what happened first.”
“I disciplined her too harshly.”
“That’s your explanation?”
“I was overwhelmed.”
“You laughed about frightening her.”
Her eyes widened.
I watched the realization spread across her face.
She had forgotten the terrace call.
“You heard that?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
She took a slow breath.
Then another.
“That was a joke.”
“A joke.”
“My friend and I were venting.”
“You said you had her working like a maid.”
“I exaggerated.”
“You said she was terrified.”
“It was sarcasm.”
“You said you made sure of it.”
Beatriz shook her head.
“You’re interpreting everything in the worst possible way because you were shocked by how Isabella looked.”
“How should I interpret it?”
She had no answer.
I pulled out my phone.
“Who were you talking to?”
Her eyes dropped to the device.
“My cousin.”
“Name?”
“Camila.”
I knew Camila.
Beatriz’s cousin lived in Valencia.
I opened my contacts.
“I’ll call her.”
Beatriz reached for the phone.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s dealing with personal problems.”
“Then this will be brief.”
“She doesn’t need to be dragged into our marriage.”
“She already is.”
I pressed call.
The line rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a recorded message said the number was unavailable.
I checked the contact.
Beatriz’s face remained unreadable.
“Interesting.”
“She probably changed numbers.”
“You spoke to her twenty minutes ago.”
“I used WhatsApp.”
I opened WhatsApp.
“Show me.”
“Stop.”
The word came out sharper than she intended.
We stared at each other.
Then my phone vibrated.
Sofia had sent me a message.
WE’RE READY WHEN YOU ARE.
I slipped the phone away.
“You have until tomorrow morning.”
“For what?”
“To tell me who Vega is.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll find out without you.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You think money means everyone will answer your questions.”
“No.”
“I think records will.”
I went into Isabella’s room.
She had changed into clean clothes.
A white T-shirt.
Soft gray pants.
Her hair was still damp.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed looking small against the enormous headboard.
I forced myself to smile.
“Ready?”
She nodded.
Then she looked toward the hallway.
“Is Beatriz coming?”
“No.”
Her shoulders dropped.
Not dramatically.
Maybe only half an inch.
But I saw it.
Relief.
That tiny movement told me more than any accusation could have.
We left through the front entrance.
Beatriz stood in the foyer.
She didn’t try to stop us.
She only watched.
As I opened the passenger door for Isabella, Beatriz called my name.
I looked back.
“You’re making a mistake.”
I held her gaze.
“I already made one.”
“What?”
“I trusted you without checking.”
Then I helped Isabella into the car.
We drove away from the villa.
For the first ten minutes, Isabella said nothing.
Marbella passed around us in flashes of white buildings, palms, expensive cars, and blue sky.
The sea appeared between buildings.
Then disappeared again.
Finally, Isabella spoke.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you mad at me?”
I almost pulled the car over.
“No.”
“Not even a little.”
She looked at her lap.
“What would I be mad about?”
“I didn’t tell you.”
I tightened my hands around the steering wheel.
“You were scared.”
She nodded.
“You don’t ever have to apologize for being scared.”
“But you called every night.”
“I did.”
“And I said everything was okay.”
I swallowed.
“Because she was there?”
Sometimes.”
“What about the other times?”
Isabella looked out the window.
“She said you were happier when I didn’t complain.”
I felt something break inside me.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a quiet understanding that the person I had married had been using my absence as a weapon.
“She was wrong.”
Isabella nodded.
Then she whispered, “Mr. Vega told her that too.”
I glanced at her.
“Told her what?”
“That you liked things easy.”
My pulse quickened.
I kept my voice neutral.
“What else did he say?”
She shook her head.
I remembered my own promise.
No interrogation.
So I waited.
We drove another kilometer.
Then Isabella spoke on her own.
“He had a gray suit.”
I listened.
“He always smelled like that spray you use before meetings.”
“Cologne?”
“Yes.”
“And he had a ring.”
“What kind?”
“A gold one.”
She lifted her hand.
“Here.”
She pointed to her little finger.
“A signet ring?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was on it?”
She thought for a moment.
“A bird.”
I knew one man who wore a gold signet ring with a bird.
Not Vega.
At least that wasn’t his name.
His real name was Arturo Valdés.
Arturo had spent twelve years working in private banking before becoming a financial consultant.
Three years earlier, he had advised Beatriz on the sale of an apartment she owned before our marriage.
I had met him once.
Maybe twice.
I remembered the ring because the bird engraved on it was an eagle.
Arturo Valdés.
Not Vega.
Why would Beatriz give Isabella a false name for a man she already knew?
I kept driving.
“Did Mr. Vega ever talk to you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Isabella hesitated.
“He asked if I missed Mom.”
I nearly missed a turn.
“Your mother?”
She nodded.
“What else?”
“He asked if you were gone a lot before she died.”
My skin went cold.
“Why would he ask that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Beatriz hear him?”
“She was sitting there.”
“Where?”
“In your office.”
I glanced at Isabella.
“No one is supposed to go into my office when I’m away.”
“I know.”
“What were they doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“They made me sit in the chair.”
“What chair?”
“The leather one.”
“In front of my desk?”
She nodded.
“Then Mr. Vega put his phone on the table.”
The road blurred for a second.
“What did he ask you?”
Isabella swallowed.
“If I felt lonely when you traveled.”
I said nothing.
“If you forgot birthdays.”
“If you ever yelled.”
“If you drank too much.”
“If you scared me.”
My heart began beating harder.
“What did you say?”
“I said no.”
Her voice became smaller.
“He kept asking.”
“What happened then?”
“Beatriz got mad.”
“At you?”
Isabella nodded.
“What did she want you to say?”
“She said I needed to tell the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you weren’t around.”
I looked straight ahead.
A shape was forming.
Not child discipline.
Not only that.
Documentation.
Questions.
Recordings.
A pattern.
Someone had been building something.
“What happened after you said no?”
Isabella rubbed her thumb over her palm.
“Beatriz told me to go to the laundry room.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was the door locked?”
She didn’t answer.
I waited.
Then she whispered, “Sometimes.”
The admission nearly stopped my breathing.
“From the outside?”
A nod.
I wanted to turn the car around.
Instead, I kept driving toward Sofia’s house.
Twenty minutes later, my sister opened the front door before we reached it.
She saw Isabella.
Her smile disappeared.
“What happened?”
“Later.”
Sofia hugged Isabella carefully.
My daughter stiffened for half a second.
Then melted into her arms.
I looked away.
I needed one second where Isabella wouldn’t see my face.
Sofia’s husband, Daniel, came from the kitchen.
He looked at me.
Then at Isabella.
Then he quietly said, “Guest room is ready.”
No questions.
That was why I had come.
That evening, Isabella ate pasta.
She asked for seconds.
Then thirds.
Sofia noticed.
So did I.
Nobody commented.
After dinner, Isabella fell asleep on the sofa with her head against my arm.
Sofia sat across from me.
“What did Beatriz do?”
I told her.
Not everything.
Just enough.
The garbage.
The storage room.
The school withdrawal.
The forged signature.
Arturo Valdés.
Sofia’s face went pale when I said the name.
“What?”
I asked.
She looked toward Isabella.
Then back at me.
“You know him?”
“I’ve seen him.”
“Where?”
“Not with Beatriz.”
She lowered her voice.
“At the funeral.”
I froze.
“What funeral?”
Sofia stared at me.
“Gabriel.”
“At Elena’s funeral.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“That’s impossible.”
“I remember the ring.”
She touched her little finger.
“Gold.”
“An eagle.”
I didn’t speak.
“I thought he was one of your business people.”
“He wasn’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“I had never hired him.”
Sofia leaned back.
“When did you first meet Beatriz?”
“About eighteen months after Elena died.”
My sister’s eyes stayed on mine.
Then she said the sentence I did not want to hear.
“Are you certain that was the first time Beatriz met him?”
Before I could answer, my phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
There was no greeting.
No name.
Only a photograph.
It had been taken through the front window of Sofia’s house.
The photograph showed me sitting beside Isabella on the sofa.
May you like
Below it were six words.
STOP ASKING ABOUT ARTURO VALDÉS.
