Chapter 7
Beatriz came to court wearing white.
I almost laughed.
She had always understood costumes.
White for innocence.
Soft makeup for tears.
Loose hair for vulnerability.
She sat across the courtroom with her attorney, a thin man named Álvaro Mestre, who smiled as if truth were a detail to be negotiated.
Isabella did not attend.
I refused.
She was at home with Elena and Grace, my sister, who had flown in from Lisbon the moment I called.
Grace had not hugged me when she arrived.
She slapped my shoulder first.
Hard.
“You left her with that woman for three months.”
“I know.”
Then she hugged me.
That was my sister.
Love with teeth.
In court, Rafael presented the medical report.
The exterior footage.
The staff statements.
The voice note.
Beatriz cried when the judge looked at her.
“I was overwhelmed,” she said. “Ivan leaves for months. Isabella is difficult. She refuses structure.”
Rafael stood.
“She is eight.”
Álvaro replied, “Age does not erase behavioral concerns.”
Rafael’s eyes turned cold.
“No. But blisters on a child’s hands erase the usefulness of euphemisms.”
The judge ordered Beatriz to remain away from Isabella and the villa pending investigation.
Temporary.
Not enough.
But a start.
Then Álvaro brought up the trust.
“Given Mr. Ortega’s emotional state, we request review of his guardianship decisions.”
The judge looked at him.
“Today?”
Álvaro smiled.
“The child’s assets are relevant to household conflict.”
Rafael was ready.
He placed Beatriz’s message on the screen.
By the review, she’ll look impossible to manage.
The courtroom went silent.
The judge read it twice.
Then looked at Beatriz.
Her tears stopped.
For the first time, the costume failed.
The trust request was denied.
A criminal inquiry expanded.
Outside court, reporters waited.
I had tried to keep Isabella’s name sealed.
Someone had leaked enough for cameras to gather.
Beatriz walked out first and began crying into microphones.
“I love my stepdaughter,” she said. “My husband is punishing me because I tried to discipline a spoiled child.”
I stepped through the doors behind her.
Reporters shouted.
Rafael told me not to speak.
But then Beatriz said, “Lucia would have understood.”
My dead wife’s name in her mouth broke the last restraint.
I walked to the microphones.
“Do not speak of Isabella’s mother again,” I said. “You were not disciplining a child. You were preparing a financial theft.”
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Beatriz went pale.
The cameras caught everything.
