CHAPTER 4 — THE MONEY BEHIND THE ABUSE
CHAPTER 4 — THE MONEY BEHIND THE ABUSE
The next morning, I stopped looking at the bruises as isolated incidents.
I started looking at them as expenses.
That was the first mistake Beatriz had made.
She thought cruelty was emotional.
It wasn't.
Cruelty was expensive.
Someone had paid for the private doctor who treated Isabella when I was away.
Someone had paid for the security modifications.
Someone had paid Adrian.
Someone had paid Elena.
Someone had paid for the legal documents hidden in the locked room.
And someone had been moving money through my accounts while I was in Dubai.
Money left trails.
People didn't.
That was why I went after the money first.
At 6:15 a.m., I was sitting alone in my office with three monitors in front of me.
My company had more than four hundred million euros in property assets.
That didn't mean four hundred million euros sat in a bank account.
It meant there were layers.
Holding companies.
Development entities.
Property trusts.
Management accounts.
Investment vehicles.
Joint ventures.
Operating companies.
For years, I had delegated most household financial management to Beatriz.
I had never considered that dangerous.
Now I understood how convenient my trust had been.
I opened the household accounts first.
Mortgage.
Utilities.
School fees.
Medical expenses.
Travel.
Household payroll.
Nothing unusual.
Then I opened the secondary accounts.
The ones I rarely touched.
That was where I found the first transfer.
€18,500.
Recipient:
M.A. Consulting
I frowned.
The company name meant nothing.
Date:
Four months earlier.
Description:
Family support.
I opened the next transfer.
€22,000.
Then €15,000.
Then €31,000.
The payments continued every few weeks.
I traced the account.
M.A. Consulting had been incorporated less than a year earlier.
Director:
Adrian Morales.
I leaned back.
There it was.
Not an affair.
Not merely abuse.
A financial network.
I printed the records.
Then I opened the company registry.
Adrian owned 70 percent.
The remaining 30 percent belonged to a woman named Clara Morales.
His sister.
I had never heard of her.
I opened another account.
This one belonged to Beatriz.
At first, there was nothing remarkable.
Then I noticed the cash withdrawals.
€5,000.
€8,000.
€12,000.
Always in amounts below the threshold that would attract additional reporting.
I smiled bitterly.
She wasn't stupid.
She was careful.
But careful people make patterns.
And patterns can be followed.
I opened the withdrawal dates.
Every major withdrawal occurred within seventy-two hours of an incident involving Isabella.
The first large withdrawal came two days before the broken plate.
The second came before the bruises on her arm.
The third came before the garbage incident.
I stared at the screen.
Was she paying someone?
Or preparing for something?
I needed to know.
At 7:10 a.m., I called Daniel.
"I found transfers."
"How much?"
"Enough."
"Give me the details."
I sent him the files.
He called back almost immediately.
"These are not household expenses."
"I know."
"The recipient is Adrian's company."
"I know."
"How long?"
"At least nine months."
He was silent.
Then:
"That's significant."
"It gets worse."
"How?"
"Withdrawals from Beatriz's personal account correspond with incidents involving Isabella."
Daniel exhaled.
"Are you certain?"
"Dates don't lie."
"People do."
"That's why I'm following the money."
He paused.
"Do not move anything yet."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
"I want a forensic accountant."
"I'll send one."
"Today."
"Already arranging it."
I looked at the clock.
"What else?"
"Have you found evidence connecting Adrian to the guardianship plan?"
"Yes."
"And Elena?"
"Alive."
He went quiet.
"Do you know where she is?"
"No."
"Then that's your priority."
I looked toward the hallway.
"First, I need to protect Isabella."
"Agreed."
"Then I want every financial transaction between Beatriz and Adrian."
"I'll get it."
"And Daniel?"
"Yes?"
"If they are using my money to hurt my daughter..."
I stopped.
He finished the sentence for me.
"Then we'll make sure the money becomes evidence."
At 8:00 a.m., Beatriz entered my office without knocking.
She was wearing a cream-colored dress.
Perfect hair.
Perfect makeup.
Perfect smile.
She looked like the woman from the terrace.
The woman who had never screamed.
Never hit anyone.
Never done anything wrong.
"You're working already?"
"I couldn't sleep."
She smiled.
"Still worried about yesterday?"
"Very."
She walked toward me.
"About Isabella?"
"About everything."
She sat across from my desk.
"You've changed."
"So have you."
Her smile faded.
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know yet."
She crossed her legs.
"You've been looking through my things."
"No."
"Then why did you ask the bank about my account?"
I stared at her.
She had found out quickly.
Too quickly.
"I didn't."
She leaned forward.
"Don't lie to me."
I smiled.
"I thought you hated lying."
Her expression froze.
For a second, we simply looked at each other.
Then she laughed.
"This is ridiculous."
"What is?"
"You are treating me like an enemy."
"Are you?"
She stood.
"I am your wife."
"That doesn't answer the question."
She walked toward the door.
Then stopped.
"Your daughter needs stability."
I looked at her.
"What does that mean?"
"It means she needs both parents."
"Agreed."
"Then stop turning her against me."
"I haven't."
"She is afraid of me because you are encouraging it."
That sentence was so absurd I almost laughed.
"You think I caused her fear?"
"I think children absorb whatever emotions their father creates."
I stood.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"You always have an explanation."
"Because I'm telling you the truth."
"Then you'll have no problem with questions."
Her face tightened.
"What questions?"
"Where does Adrian's money come from?"
She froze.
There.
One second.
One tiny crack.
Then she recovered.
"Adrian?"
"Yes."
"Why are you asking about him?"
"He's my business partner."
"Exactly."
"And money is leaving my accounts and reaching his company."
"I wouldn't know anything about that."
"Good."
I sat down.
"Then we'll both be surprised by what the accountant finds."
She stared at me.
"You've hired someone?"
"Maybe."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You're threatening me."
"No."
I smiled.
"I'm informing you."
She walked out.
I waited until the door closed.
Then I whispered:
"You're getting nervous."
At 10:30 a.m., my forensic accountant arrived.
His name was Victor Salgado.
Fifty-two.
Quiet.
Former financial crimes investigator.
He had spent twenty-five years tracing money through corporations designed specifically to hide it.
He shook my hand.
"I reviewed what you sent."
"And?"
"You've got a problem."
"I assumed so."
He placed a folder on my desk.
"Your wife isn't stealing from you directly."
"What is she doing?"
"She's creating liabilities."
I frowned.
"Explain."
"Money is leaving your accounts through legitimate-looking payments."
"To Adrian."
"Yes."
"But the money doesn't remain there."
"Where does it go?"
"That's what we're tracing."
He opened a chart.
There were six companies.
Three in Spain.
Two in Luxembourg.
One in Gibraltar.
I stared at the structure.
"What is this?"
"A laundering chain."
I looked at him.
"Are you sure?"
"No."
He tapped the first account.
"But I suspect it."
"Why?"
"Because the companies share directors, addresses, accountants, and banking patterns."
He pointed to another line.
"And this company received money from your property development account."
"How much?"
"€2.4 million."
I stared at him.
"When?"
"Over the past eleven months."
I felt my jaw tighten.
"Why didn't I see it?"
"Because it was broken into hundreds of smaller payments."
"Who authorized them?"
He turned the page.
"Your CFO."
I stopped.
"My CFO?"
"Yes."
"Name?"
"Mateo Ruiz."
I knew him.
I'd hired him six years earlier.
He had been loyal.
Or so I thought.
Victor continued.
"But here's the interesting part."
He placed another document in front of me.
"Mateo didn't authorize all of them."
"Then who did?"
He pointed to the digital authorization trail.
"Your wife's device."
I stared at the screen.
Beatriz had access to several household financial portals.
I had given it to her years ago for convenience.
She had used it to authorize transfers.
Not personally.
Through an encrypted remote connection.
"Can you prove it's her?"
"Not yet."
"Can you prove the device was used?"
"Yes."
"Then that's enough for now."
Victor shook his head.
"No."
He opened another file.
"This is where it gets interesting."
A payment had been made to a private rehabilitation clinic.
€48,000.
I recognized the clinic.
It specialized in addiction treatment and psychiatric care.
I looked at the patient name.
My own.
I stared.
"What the hell is this?"
Victor remained silent.
The patient name was mine.
The date was six months earlier.
I had never been there.
I had never been treated for anything.
I had never even visited the clinic.
But the payment was real.
And the medical record existed.
I looked at Victor.
"Someone created a medical history for me."
He nodded.
"That's what it looks like."
"Why?"
"To establish a record."
"For what?"
He looked at me.
"Insanity."
The word landed like a hammer.
I remembered Daniel's warning.
They were building a case.
Not only financially.
Psychologically.
They wanted a paper trail proving I was unstable.
If they later claimed I had become dangerous—
there would already be medical evidence supporting them.
Even if it was fabricated.
I stood.
"Find everything."
Victor nodded.
"That's what I'm here for."
At noon, I went to Isabella's school.
I wanted to see her.
But I also wanted to understand who had been involved.
Her teacher welcomed me warmly.
"Mr. Bennett."
"How has Isabella been?"
The teacher hesitated.
That hesitation told me everything.
"Is there a problem?"
"She's been withdrawn."
"Since when?"
"About six months."
"Six months?"
She nodded.
"She stopped participating."
"Did she tell you why?"
"No."
"Did anyone contact you?"
"Her mother."
"What did she say?"
The teacher looked uncomfortable.
"She said Isabella was having behavioral problems."
I felt cold.
"What kind?"
"Defiance. Mood swings. Anger."
"Was that true?"
The teacher shook her head.
"Not from what I saw."
"Then why did she say it?"
"I assumed there was something happening at home."
"Did she ask you to document anything?"
The teacher hesitated.
"Yes."
"What?"
"Incidents."
"Which incidents?"
"Anything suggesting Isabella was emotionally unstable."
My stomach tightened.
"Did you do it?"
"I wrote what I observed."
"Did you ever observe her being dangerous?"
"No."
"Violent?"
"No."
"Unstable?"
The teacher shook her head.
"She was scared."
"Of what?"
The teacher looked at me.
"Her mother."
Silence.
Then she lowered her voice.
"She once asked me if children could be taken away from their fathers."
My heart broke.
"Why would she ask that?"
"I don't know."
"Did you tell Beatriz?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because Isabella begged me not to."
I closed my eyes.
"Thank you."
The teacher looked at me.
"Mr. Bennett?"
"Yes?"
"I think you need to know something."
"What?"
"Someone came to the school last month."
"Who?"
"A man."
"What man?"
"He said he was investigating your family."
"Name?"
"Adrian Morales."
My blood ran cold.
"What did he ask?"
"About Isabella."
"What exactly?"
"Whether she had behavioral problems."
"Anything else?"
The teacher looked uncomfortable.
"He asked whether you had ever appeared angry or confused during school meetings."
I almost laughed.
"Did he say why?"
"No."
I thanked her.
Then walked outside.
The sunlight was bright.
Too bright.
I stood beside my car and called Daniel.
"Adrian went to Isabella's school."
"Why?"
"To collect evidence against me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"What did he ask?"
I told him.
Daniel was silent.
Then:
"That's enough."
"Enough for what?"
"Enough to show premeditation."
I looked at the school.
"How long has this been going on?"
"Probably longer than we think."
I clenched my fists.
"Then I'm going to find out everything."
That evening, I returned home early.
Beatriz was in the living room.
She looked surprised.
"You came home."
"I wanted to see my daughter."
"She's upstairs."
"Where is Adrian?"
Her eyes narrowed.
"Why would Adrian be here?"
"Was he?"
"No."
I walked past her.
"Where are you going?"
"Upstairs."
"Don't."
I stopped.
"What?"
She stood.
"She's sleeping."
"It's seven."
"She had a long day."
I looked at her.
"Move."
She didn't.
For the first time, I saw something in her eyes that wasn't fear.
It was anger.
"You don't trust me."
"No."
"Then why are you still here?"
I stared at her.
"Because I'm not finished."
She whispered:
"Finished with what?"
"The truth."
She stepped closer.
"You're going to destroy this family."
I looked at her.
"No."
"You already have."
I shook my head.
"You did."
Then I walked upstairs.
Isabella wasn't in her bedroom.
I checked the bathroom.
Empty.
Closet.
Empty.
Then I heard something.
A faint sound from the west corridor.
Crying.
I ran.
The locked room door was open.
Isabella was standing inside.
Alone.
Her face was pale.
I dropped to my knees.
"What are you doing here?"
She ran into my arms.
"Mommy brought me."
My heart stopped.
"Why?"
She buried her face against my chest.
"She said I needed to remember."
"Remember what?"
She pointed toward the wall.
I turned.
The photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Isabella had seen them.
She whispered:
"Mommy said this is where they watched me."
I looked at the photographs.
Then at my daughter.
"Who watched you?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know."
Then she pointed to one photograph.
A woman.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
Elena.
Isabella stared at her.
"That's the lady."
"What lady?"
"The one who came to my room."
My blood froze.
"When?"
"Last year."
"Did you talk to her?"
She nodded.
"What did she say?"
Isabella's voice trembled.
"She said she was sorry."
"For what?"
"I don't know."
"Where did she go?"
Isabella pointed toward the hidden passage.
"Mommy told her to leave."
I stared into the darkness.
Elena had been in my house.
Beatriz knew her.
Adrian knew her.
And my daughter remembered her.
Then Isabella whispered:
"She said she was my mommy."
Everything stopped.
The world.
The house.
My thoughts.
Everything.
I held my daughter tighter.
Behind us, footsteps sounded in the corridor.
I turned.
Beatriz stood in the doorway.
She looked at Isabella.
Then at me.
And for the first time, she didn't pretend.
She simply stared.
I stood slowly.
"Did Elena come here?"
Beatriz said nothing.
"Did she meet our daughter?"
Still nothing.
"Did you tell Isabella to forget her?"
Beatriz's jaw tightened.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain."
"You weren't supposed to find this."
"I found it."
"You were supposed to trust me."
"I did."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"That's why I had to do what I did."
I stared at her.
"What did you do?"
She looked at Isabella.
Then at me.
And whispered:
"I saved her."
I felt something cold settle inside me.
"From whom?"
Beatriz looked toward the photographs.
"From her real mother."
I shook my head.
"That's not the whole truth."
"No."
She swallowed.
"It's worse."
"What?"
Her eyes met mine.
"Elena didn't give Isabella away willingly."
Silence.
"What are you saying?"
Beatriz stepped backward.
"She was forced."
"By whom?"
She didn't answer.
"Beatriz."
She closed her eyes.
Then whispered the name I least expected.
"Your father."
I couldn't move.
"My father?"
"He was the one who started everything."
She looked at me.
"And your family has been paying for his secret ever since."
I stared at her.
"Then tell me the truth."
She shook her head.
"Not here."
"Why?"
"Because they're listening."
I looked around the room.
"Who?"
Beatriz's face went pale.
Then she whispered:
"The people who paid for Isabella."
Before I could ask another question, every light in the corridor went out.
The villa fell into darkness.
May you like
And somewhere downstairs—
a door slammed.
