Chapter 2
I took Isabella straight to the guest bathroom near the kitchen.
Not upstairs.
Not away from me.
Not anywhere Beatriz could corner her.
My daughter stood on the tile, still wrapped in my jacket, trembling so badly the sleeves shook.
“Dad,” she whispered. “I can clean it myself.”
“No.”
I knelt in front of her.
“Not anymore.”
Her eyes filled.
That was when I understood another terrible thing.
She had expected me to be angry about the dirt.
Not the abuse.
I filled the sink with warm water and helped her wash her hands.
She hissed when the water touched the blisters.
I almost lost control.
I turned my face away until I could breathe.
“Did this happen today?” I asked.
She stared at the water.
“The blisters?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head.
“They started last week.”
Last week.
While I was in Dubai.
While Beatriz sent me smiling photos of dinners, sunsets, and Isabella standing too far from the camera.
I remembered one video call.
Isabella had kept her hands behind her back.
I had asked if she was okay.
Beatriz answered for her.
“She’s being shy.”
I had believed the easiest answer.
That guilt cut deep.
Beatriz appeared in the doorway.
“Ivan, this is getting ridiculous.”
My name sounded wrong in her mouth now.
I turned.
“Leave.”
She blinked.
“This is my house too.”
“No. This is Isabella’s bathroom right now. Leave.”
Her jaw tightened.
“You’re frightening her.”
I looked at Isabella.
“Am I frightening you?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation hurt.
Then she whispered, “No.”
Beatriz’s eyes narrowed.
“Ivan, she lies when she’s upset.”
I stood slowly.
“Does she?”
“She exaggerates. She’s sensitive. She always has been.”
Isabella flinched.
I noticed.
Beatriz noticed that I noticed.
Her voice softened too quickly.
“Darling, I know this looks bad. You’ve been gone for months. You don’t understand the behavior issues I’ve been handling alone.”
“What behavior issues?”
Beatriz sighed.
“Defiance. Laziness. Stealing food. Breaking things. Talking back.”
Isabella whispered, “I didn’t steal food.”
Beatriz snapped, “Don’t interrupt adults.”
My daughter went silent instantly.
That silence told me everything.
I stepped toward Beatriz.
“You will not speak to her like that again.”
She looked genuinely shocked.
“You’re taking her side?”
“She is a child.”
“She is your child, so you refuse to see what she is becoming.”
“What is she becoming?”
Beatriz hesitated.
Then said, “Difficult.”
I almost laughed.
Difficult.
A convenient word adults use when a child stops accepting cruelty quietly.
I picked up my phone and called Dr. Elena Ruiz, Isabella’s pediatrician.
Beatriz’s face changed.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting her hands examined.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“The blisters say otherwise.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“No,” I said. “She will be cared for.”
Elena answered.
I told her I needed her at the villa immediately.
She heard my voice and did not ask unnecessary questions.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
When I ended the call, Beatriz stepped closer.
“Ivan, think carefully. If you make this public, people will ask why you left your daughter with me for three months.”
There it was.
The first threat.
Not open.
Not loud.
But sharp.
I looked at her.
“They can ask.”
She blinked.
“I’ll answer.”
Her face hardened.
May you like
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m learning.”
