Chapter 8
The leak became a storm.
By evening, every Spanish gossip site had a version of the story.
Real estate tycoon accuses wife of abusing daughter for trust control.
Stepmother denies allegations.
Child caught in family fortune battle.
I hated every headline.
Isabella saw none of them.
We removed television from the sitting room and kept her tablet offline except for school lessons and calls with Grace-approved cousins.
But children feel storms even behind closed doors.
At dinner, she asked, “Are people mad at me?”
My spoon stopped.
“No.”
“Because I made trouble?”
Grace leaned forward.
“You did not make trouble. Trouble was already there. You helped people see it.”
Isabella looked at her bandaged hands.
“I didn’t tell.”
I moved my chair closer.
“You survived.”
She frowned.
“That’s not the same as helping.”
“It is when you’re a child.”
She thought about that.
Then asked for another piece of bread.
I nearly cried.
The next day, Rafael and I reviewed the extracted messages.
Beatriz had not acted alone.
Her cousin Camila.
A foundation lawyer named Sergio Varela.
A private child psychologist named Dr. Marta León.
And someone saved only as R.
The messages showed a plan.
Make Isabella appear defiant.
Document emotional outbursts.
Suggest residential schooling.
Question my fitness due to constant travel.
Force external management of the trust.
Once Beatriz gained influence, the properties could be refinanced.
Money would flow through shell firms.
My daughter’s inheritance would be drained before she understood the word inheritance.
I looked at Sergio’s name.
“I know him.”
Rafael nodded.
“He attended the Marbella charity dinner last year.”
I remembered him shaking my hand.
Praising my Dubai project.
Telling Beatriz she had “such patience” with motherhood.
My stomach turned.
“What about Dr. León?”
“Licensed. Expensive. Known for custody evaluations.”
“Has she met Isabella?”
Rafael’s expression darkened.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three times while you were in Dubai.”
I stood.
“No.”
“She billed Beatriz directly.”
My mind flashed to video calls where Beatriz said Isabella was at tutoring.
“What did she write?”
Rafael hesitated.
“Show me.”
He opened the report.
Emotionally manipulative.
Attention-seeking.
Possible inherited instability from deceased mother.
I read the last line again.
From deceased mother.
Beatriz had dragged Lucia into this too.
That night, I went into the storage room and opened Lucia’s old cedar chest.
Inside were letters, photographs, silk scarves, and a sealed envelope addressed to me.
I had never opened it.
Because grief is cowardly sometimes.
May you like
My hands shook as I broke the seal.
Ivan, if anyone ever uses my name to make Isabella feel broken, show her the blue book.
