Chapter 4 - THE MESSAGE FROM ROSA
I stared at the photograph until the screen dimmed.
Then I looked toward the window.
The curtains were open.
Outside, the quiet residential street looked empty.
A row of parked cars.
Low garden walls.
Soft amber streetlights.
Nothing moved.
“Sofia.”
My sister heard something in my voice.
She stood immediately.
“What?”
“Close the curtains.”
Daniel crossed the room before she could answer.
He pulled them shut.
“What happened?”
I showed them the phone.
Sofia read the message.
Her face hardened.
Daniel moved toward the front door.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“If someone is outside—”
“If someone wanted us to know they were outside, running into the street is exactly what they expect.”
He looked at me.
I could tell he hated that I was right.
I picked Isabella up carefully.
She barely stirred.
Sofia led me upstairs.
We placed her in the guest room.
I stayed beside the bed until her breathing settled again.
When I returned downstairs, Daniel had turned off the lights in the front room.
“Police?”
He asked.
“Yes.”
I called.
I gave them the message.
I gave them the number.
I described everything I had learned that afternoon.
Then I contacted the head of security for Serrano Property Group.
His name was Mateo Cruz.
Former Guardia Civil.
Fifty-three.
Quiet.
Methodical.
One of the few employees I trusted without hesitation.
“Gabriel?”
He sounded surprised.
“I thought you were still in Dubai.”
“I’m not.”
I told him I needed a team at Sofia’s house.
Discreet.
Immediately.
His tone changed.
“Threat?”
“Yes.”
“Against you?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That answer made the situation feel worse.
Mateo said he would handle it.
Twenty-five minutes later, two security vehicles were parked at opposite ends of the street.
The police arrived soon after.
They found no one.
No obvious camera.
No person lingering nearby.
No vehicle registered suspiciously.
Whoever had taken the photo had already left.
At midnight, I was still awake.
I sat in Sofia’s study with my laptop open.
Arturo Valdés appeared on the screen.
Public records.
Company history.
Professional associations.
Old interviews.
A photograph showed him at a charity dinner in Madrid.
Gray suit.
Gold eagle ring.
Same man Isabella had described.
He had founded a consulting firm called Valdés Strategic Advisory.
The website described asset protection, family-office management, private restructuring, and succession planning.
Succession planning.
I read the phrase three times.
Then I searched his connection to Beatriz.
Nothing obvious.
No shared companies.
No photographs.
No public partnerships.
I searched the date of Elena’s funeral.
Four years earlier.
Nothing.
At 12:38 a.m., my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
I heard breathing.
Then a woman whispered, “Mr. Serrano?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Rosa.”
I stood.
Rosa Mendoza had worked in my house for almost nine years.
She had helped raise Isabella from infancy.
When I left for Dubai three months earlier, Rosa was still our senior housekeeper.
I had not seen her that afternoon.
I had assumed she was on leave.
“Rosa?”
She started crying.
Not loudly.
The sound came through as a broken breath.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I should have called you.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Are you safe?”
“I think so.”
“What happened?”
She lowered her voice.
“Mrs. Serrano fired me.”
“When?”
“Seven weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“Because of Isabella.”
I closed my eyes.
“Tell me.”
Rosa hesitated.
Then the story came.
The first changes had begun ten days after I left.
Beatriz started assigning Isabella small chores.
Making her own bed.
Putting away toys.
Normal things.
Then the chores multiplied.
Breakfast trays.
Laundry.
Cleaning bathrooms.
Dragging garden waste.
Rosa had objected.
Beatriz told her Isabella was spoiled.
A week later, Isabella stopped eating with Beatriz at the main dining table.
Instead, she ate in the kitchen.
Then she lost her room.
Rosa tried to move her back upstairs.
Beatriz threatened to fire her.
Rosa stayed.
She believed leaving would make things worse.
Then Arturo started visiting.
At first, always during the day.
Later, at night.
They used my office.
They locked the door.
Once, Rosa heard Isabella crying inside.
“What were they doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see?”
“No.”
“Why was Isabella in there?”
“They asked her questions.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
My jaw tightened.
“How do you know?”
“I listened outside.”
“What questions?”
“If you drank.”
“If you were angry.”
“If you left her alone.”
“If she feared you.”
Same questions Isabella had described.
“What did she say?”
“The truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you worked too much.”
“That she missed you.”
“But that you never hurt her.”
Rosa took a breath.
“Mrs. Serrano became furious.”
“What happened?”
“She told Isabella she was ungrateful.”
“She made her stand in the hallway for almost an hour.”
“I tried to stop it.”
“That was the first time Mrs. Serrano threatened to fire me.”
I sat down.
My hands were shaking.
“When did she actually fire you?”
“The day I found the papers.”
“What papers?”
Silence.
“Rosa.”
“I took photographs.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Of what?”
“A petition.”
“For what?”
She began crying again.
“Guardianship.”
I stopped breathing.
“Guardianship of Isabella?”
“Yes.”
“By Beatriz?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
“I’m alive.”
“I know.”
“She’s my wife.”
“I know.”
“What exactly did the petition say?”
“I didn’t understand all of it.”
“But it said you were emotionally absent.”
“Unstable.”
“Frequently intoxicated.”
“And that Isabella was afraid of you.”
My entire body went cold.
None of those claims were true.
But someone had been asking my daughter questions designed to create those exact statements.
“Send me the photographs.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“My phone was taken.”
“By Beatriz?”
“By Mr. Valdés.”
“How are you calling me?”
“My sister’s phone.”
“Where are the photos?”
“I backed them up.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“Then meet me.”
She was silent.
“Rosa, I will protect you.”
“You said that about the house.”
The words hurt.
She immediately apologized.
“No.”
I stopped her.
“You’re right.”
Another silence.
Then she said, “They know you’re home.”
“I know.”
“They know you asked about Valdés?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Rosa’s breathing changed.
“Then they’re watching.”
“I know.”
“I can’t meet you yet.”
“Rosa.”
“There’s something else.”
I waited.
“The day Mrs. Serrano fired me, Isabella gave me something.”
“What?”
“A note.”
“What did it say?”
“She asked me to hide it.”
“What did it say?”
“I never opened it.”
“Why?”
“She told me it was for you.”
My throat tightened.
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I need it.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
For the first time, the shape of Beatriz’s plan was becoming visible.
Someone had tried to create evidence that I was an unfit father.
They withdrew Isabella from school.
They isolated her.
They questioned her on camera.
They forged my signatures.
And someone had drafted guardianship papers.
But guardianship while I was alive required more than allegations of absence.
It required a reason I could not care for Isabella.
Incapacity.
A court order.
Or something worse.
I opened my laptop again.
I searched Valdés Strategic Advisory.
Then I searched corporate relationships.
An hour later, one company name appeared repeatedly.
MAR AZUL HOLDINGS.
I recognized it.
Barely.
A small holding company registered in Luxembourg had attempted to buy a minority position in one of my coastal developments two years earlier.
My board rejected the offer.
I clicked through public filings.
One director.
Then another.
Then an older filing.
And there it was.
A name I knew.
Rafael Montes.
My personal attorney.
My closest legal adviser for fifteen years.
The man who had stood beside me at Elena’s funeral.
The man who had helped me create Isabella’s trust.
The man who knew every detail of my estate.
I called him immediately.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Gabriel?”
He sounded sleepy.
“Where are you?”
“Madrid.”
“Are you alone?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Do you know Arturo Valdés?”
Silence.
Too long.
“Rafael?”
“I know many people.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Yes.”
“I know Arturo.”
“How?”
“Professionally.”
“How professionally?”
“He consulted on several matters.”
“Mine?”
“No.”
“Beatriz’s?”
Another pause.
“Why are you asking?”
“Answer me.”
“I believe I introduced them.”
My skin went cold.
“When?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Before Elena died?”
Silence.
“Rafael.”
“I need to check.”
“You don’t need to check whether you introduced my current wife to a man before my first wife died.”
“Gabriel, it’s one in the morning.”
“Before Elena died?”
He exhaled.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“How long before?”
“Maybe several months.”
“How did Beatriz know you?”
“She attended a foundation event.”
“What foundation event?”
“Elena’s foundation.”
I stood so fast the chair struck the wall.
Beatriz had told me she never met Elena.
She had said she knew who Elena was, of course.
Everyone in our social circle did.
But she insisted they had never spoken.
Never attended the same private event.
Never crossed paths.
“Why did you never tell me?”
“It wasn’t important.”
“My wife lied to me about knowing people connected to Elena.”
“You’re making this larger than it is.”
I almost laughed.
That was exactly what Beatriz had said.
“Why is your name connected to Mar Azul Holdings?”
This time, Rafael went silent for nearly ten seconds.
Then he said, “We should discuss this in person.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“My office.”
“No.”
“Then your office.”
“No.”
Another pause.
“Gabriel, what happened?”
“I came home.”
That was all I said.
He understood enough.
His breathing changed.
“Where is Isabella?”
I said nothing.
“Gabriel.”
“How do you know this involves Isabella?”
Silence.
The answer arrived without words.
I disconnected.
Three seconds later, Rafael called back.
I declined.
Again.
Declined.
Again.
Declined.
Then a message appeared.
DO NOT TRUST ROSA.
I stared at it.
Another message followed.
SHE STOLE DOCUMENTS.
Then another.
BEATRIZ HAS MADE MISTAKES, BUT THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU THINK.
I typed one sentence.
THEN WHAT IS IT?
His reply took almost a minute.
Finally, three words appeared.
CALL ME ALONE.
I did not.
At 2:16 a.m., another notification arrived.
Not Rafael.
An email.
The sender address was unfamiliar.
The subject line contained only one word.
ISABELLA.
Attached was a video file.
I opened it.
The image showed my office in Marbella.
Date stamp.
Five weeks earlier.
Isabella sat in the leather chair.
Arturo Valdés stood behind the camera.
Beatriz sat across from my daughter.
The audio began.
Arturo asked, “Does your father frighten you?”
Isabella shook her head.
“No.”
Beatriz leaned forward.
“Think carefully.”
Isabella looked confused.
Arturo asked again.
“When your father gets angry, do you feel unsafe?”
“He doesn’t get angry at me.”
Beatriz’s jaw tightened.
“Isabella.”
My daughter looked down.
Then Arturo asked another question.
“Would you rather live with Beatriz if your father went away?”
Isabella’s eyes filled with tears.
“No.”
Beatriz stood abruptly.
The video shook.
Then she walked toward Isabella.
Her voice dropped.
“You are going to ruin everything.”
The video ended.
I stared at the black screen.
A second attachment appeared beneath it.
A photograph.
A handwritten note.
The handwriting belonged to my daughter.
DAD, I’M SORRY I LIED WHEN YOU CALLED.
BEATRIZ SAID IF I TOLD YOU THE TRUTH, SOMETHING BAD WOULD HAPPEN TO YOUR PLANE.
I couldn’t breathe.
May you like
Then I saw one final line.
MR. VEGA SAID HE KNEW HOW MOM’S CAR CRASHED.
