Chapter 2 — The Bruises Beneath the Sleeves
Chapter 2 — The Bruises Beneath the Sleeves
I did not confront Beatriz the next morning.
That decision was the hardest thing I had ever made.
Every instinct in me wanted to walk into her bedroom, put the notebook on the bed, hold up the photograph, and demand an explanation.
But I had learned one thing in business long before I learned it in marriage.
When you discover that someone has been lying to you, never reveal everything you know.
Not until you know what they are hiding.
So I said nothing.
I acted as though the night before had never happened.
And Beatriz believed me.
Or at least she thought she did.
At breakfast, she walked into the dining room wearing a cream-colored dress and a smile so convincing that, if I hadn't seen my daughter kneeling in the garbage the previous afternoon, I might have believed her.
“Good morning.”
I looked up from my coffee.
“Morning.”
She kissed my cheek.
I didn't move.
She noticed.
But she didn't comment.
Instead, she looked toward Isabella.
My daughter sat at the far end of the table.
Her sleeves were pulled down over her hands.
She was eating slowly.
Too slowly.
“Eat properly,” Beatriz said.
Isabella immediately straightened.
“Yes, Mommy.”
I watched her.
The fear in her eyes wasn't normal.
Children could fear punishment.
They could fear disappointment.
But Isabella was afraid of making the wrong movement.
The wrong sound.
The wrong expression.
She was watching Beatriz the way an employee watches an unpredictable employer.
That realization made my stomach turn.
“Isabella,” I said gently.
She looked at me.
“Why are your sleeves covering your hands?”
She froze.
Beatriz answered before she could.
“She spilled something on herself yesterday.”
I turned toward my wife.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Hot?”
Beatriz hesitated.
“A little.”
I looked at Isabella.
“Is that what happened?”
My daughter stared at her plate.
“Yes.”
The answer was too fast.
Too rehearsed.
I said nothing.
But I remembered the blisters on her palms.
Coffee could explain burns.
It couldn't explain the bruises I had seen beneath her sleeves.
After breakfast, I asked Isabella to come upstairs.
“Why?”
“I want to help you change the bandages on your hands.”
Her eyes immediately went toward the hallway.
“Mommy said I shouldn't bother you.”
“You aren't bothering me.”
“She said you're tired.”
“I am.”
I smiled.
“But I'm never too tired for you.”
She followed me.
Inside her room, I closed the door.
Then I sat beside her.
“Can I see your arms?”
She pulled her sleeves lower.
“Dad…”
“I'm not angry.”
She still hesitated.
“I promise.”
Slowly, she pushed the sleeves upward.
The first bruise appeared just below her elbow.
Purple.
Yellow around the edges.
Older than yesterday.
I stared at it.
“Where did this come from?”
“I fell.”
“Where?”
“The stairs.”
“When?”
“I don't remember.”
I gently touched the skin around it.
She flinched.
I stopped immediately.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
There was another bruise.
Then another.
Some small.
Some large.
One had the shape of fingers.
My breathing changed.
“Isabella.”
She looked at me.
“Who did this?”
Silence.
“Was it Beatriz?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“She'll know.”
“How?”
“She always knows.”
“How does she know?”
“Because she checks.”
My blood ran cold.
“What does she check?”
“My arms.”
“Every day?”
Isabella nodded.
“What happens if she sees a bruise?”
“She asks if I told you.”
“And if you did?”
“She says you'll leave.”
I stared at her.
“Leave her?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“She says you'll leave me.”
My chest tightened.
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
“Many times?”
“Yes.”
I took her hands.
“Isabella, listen to me.”
She looked at me.
“Nothing you say will ever make me leave you.”
She began crying.
“But she said—”
“She lied.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am absolutely sure.”
She wiped her face.
“She said you only wanted a perfect daughter.”
I felt something inside me break.
“You are my daughter.”
“But I'm not perfect.”
“I don't want perfect.”
“What do you want?”
I looked at her.
“You.”
She stared at me.
“Just you.”
I called our family doctor.
His name was Dr. Mateo Ruiz.
He had treated Isabella since she was born.
I didn't tell him everything over the phone.
I simply said:
“I need you to examine my daughter privately.”
He understood immediately.
Within an hour, he arrived at the villa.
Beatriz was in the garden.
I told her Isabella needed a routine checkup.
She smiled.
“Of course.”
Then she looked at Isabella.
“Be good.”
My daughter lowered her head.
Dr. Ruiz noticed.
He said nothing.
We went upstairs.
The moment the door closed, his expression changed.
“What happened?”
I showed him the bruises.
He examined them carefully.
His face became increasingly serious.
“These aren't from one accident.”
“I know.”
“Some are at least several weeks old.”
“Could they be from normal childhood activity?”
He shook his head.
“Not all of them.”
He examined her wrists.
Then her shoulders.
Then her back.
I stood near the window.
I wanted to scream.
But I stayed silent.
Finally he asked:
“Isabella, does anyone hurt you?”
She looked at me.
Then at him.
Dr. Ruiz spoke softly.
“You can tell me.”
She whispered:
“Sometimes.”
“Who?”
She didn't answer.
“Does someone at home hurt you?”
She nodded.
My eyes closed.
Dr. Ruiz looked at me.
“Can you give me an example?”
“She pulls me.”
“Who?”
“Mommy.”
Beatriz.
The word hung in the room.
Dr. Ruiz continued gently.
“Does she hit you?”
“Not often.”
“What does she do?”
“She grabs me.”
“Where?”
“My arms.”
“Why?”
“When I'm slow.”
“Slow doing what?”
“Cleaning.”
Dr. Ruiz looked at me.
Then he asked:
“Does she make you work every day?”
Isabella nodded.
“How long?”
“Until everything is done.”
“Does she make you skip meals?”
Another nod.
“Does she lock you somewhere?”
Isabella became silent.
Dr. Ruiz looked at me.
“Isabella?”
She whispered:
“Sometimes.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where?”
“The laundry room.”
I felt the room disappear around me.
The notebook.
The bucket.
The stool.
The words.
Everything fit.
Dr. Ruiz finished the examination.
He pulled me aside.
“I need to speak with you privately.”
We went into the hallway.
“What is it?”
“You need to understand that these injuries are concerning.”
“How concerning?”
“Some bruises are consistent with repeated gripping.”
I stared at him.
“Repeated?”
“Yes.”
“Could she have caused them herself?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
He lowered his voice.
“There are also signs of stress.”
“What kind?”
“Sleep disturbance. Hypervigilance. Fear response.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
My daughter was afraid of everything.
“Can she stay here?”
He hesitated.
“Not if the person responsible still has unrestricted access to her.”
I looked toward the garden.
Beatriz.
“You think she should leave?”
“I think you need to make sure Isabella is safe.”
The doctor paused.
“And document everything.”
“Why?”
“Because if this becomes a legal matter, memories aren't enough.”
I understood.
Evidence.
I had been thinking about evidence since the previous night.
Now I knew why I needed it.
That afternoon, I took Isabella to the beach.
Just the two of us.
No bodyguards.
No staff.
No Beatriz.
She ran barefoot across the sand.
For the first time since I returned, I heard her laugh.
It was a small laugh.
But it sounded like my daughter.
We sat near the water.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you mad at Mommy?”
I looked at the sea.
“I'm upset.”
“Because of me?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because adults are supposed to protect children.”
She looked down.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why did she say I deserved it?”
I turned toward her.
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That bad girls need consequences.”
I swallowed.
“What made you a bad girl?”
“I spilled juice.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“And?”
“She made me clean the whole house.”
“How long?”
“Until midnight.”
My hands tightened.
“You were eight.”
“I was seven then.”
I stared at her.
Seven.
She had been seven when this started.
I had missed it.
For months, I had missed it.
I had been halfway across the world building hotels while my little girl was cleaning floors at midnight.
I felt ashamed.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to send me away?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She leaned against me.
I wrapped my arm around her.
“I should have come home sooner.”
“You didn't know.”
“I should have.”
She looked up at me.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Are you going to leave Mommy?”
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I didn't know.
But I knew one thing.
“I am never going to leave you.”
She smiled.
That was enough.
When we returned to the villa, Beatriz was waiting.
She stood in the hallway.
Her smile was gone.
“You took her without telling me.”
“I told you we were going out.”
“You didn't say where.”
“I don't need permission to take my daughter to the beach.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“She has responsibilities.”
“She has childhood.”
“She needs structure.”
“She needs safety.”
Beatriz stepped closer.
“You're overreacting.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Then explain the bruises.”
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
“What bruises?”
“On her arms.”
“She bruises easily.”
“Dr. Ruiz disagrees.”
She stared at me.
“You had him examine her?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me?”
“She is my daughter.”
“And I'm her mother.”
“You're her stepmother.”
Silence.
That was the first time I had ever said it like that.
Beatriz's expression hardened.
“She loves me.”
“I hope she does.”
“She does.”
“Then you should have treated her like someone you love.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You have no idea what I've had to deal with.”
“What have you had to deal with?”
“She is difficult.”
“She is eight.”
“She lies.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
I stared at her.
“Then why was she afraid to tell me the truth?”
Beatriz didn't answer.
“Why did she think you'd know if she told me?”
Still nothing.
“Why did you take her bedroom?”
“She didn't need such a large room.”
“You needed the closet.”
She crossed her arms.
“You're making assumptions.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“I'm connecting facts.”
That night, I checked the villa's security system.
I owned the house.
I owned the security company.
I knew exactly how the system worked.
There were cameras covering the entrance, driveway, pool, garden, garage, and main hallway.
But when I accessed the recordings from the previous three months, I noticed something strange.
Several days had missing footage.
Not corrupted.
Deleted.
I called the security company.
“Who authorized these deletions?”
The technician sounded nervous.
“I'll have to check.”
“Check now.”
There was silence.
Then:
“Mr. Alvarez, the requests came from an administrative account.”
“Whose?”
He hesitated.
“Mrs. Alvarez.”
My wife.
“Can you recover the files?”
“Some.”
“How long?”
“Maybe an hour.”
“Do it.”
I ended the call.
Then I heard a noise behind me.
I turned.
Beatriz stood in the doorway.
“You're checking the cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Security.”
She smiled.
“You're becoming paranoid.”
“Maybe.”
I turned back toward the computer.
She didn't leave.
“Are you investigating me?”
I looked at her.
“Should I?”
Her smile disappeared.
“No.”
“Then there's nothing to worry about.”
She walked away.
I waited until she was gone.
Then I called the technician again.
“Don't tell anyone what you recover.”
“Understood.”
“And send copies to me directly.”
“Of course.”
I ended the call.
My phone immediately buzzed.
A message.
From an unknown number.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN DUBAI.
I stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOUR WIFE IS CAPABLE OF.
Then:
AND YOU DON'T KNOW WHO IS HELPING HER.
I looked toward the hallway.
Someone had just walked past.
A shadow.
I ran after it.
But by the time I reached the entrance, nobody was there.
Only the front door was moving slightly in the evening wind.
The next morning, Dr. Ruiz called.
“I found something in Isabella's medical records.”
“What?”
“There's an old emergency visit.”
“When?”
“Six weeks ago.”
I frowned.
“I don't remember that.”
“You weren't notified.”
“Who brought her?”
He paused.
“Beatriz.”
“What happened?”
“Isabella had abdominal pain and dizziness.”
“Why didn't I know?”
“She told us you were overseas and didn't want to disturb you.”
I felt sick.
“What did the examination show?”
“Dehydration.”
“Anything else?”
“Low blood sugar.”
I gripped the phone.
“Was she eating?”
“Apparently not enough.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
I closed my eyes.
“Send me the report.”
“I will.”
“And Mateo?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
He hesitated.
“There's one more thing.”
“What?”
“The doctor who saw her that day noted something unusual.”
“What?”
“He wrote that Isabella repeatedly asked whether she was going to be punished for telling the truth.”
I couldn't speak.
Dr. Ruiz continued.
“Rachel…”
“What?”
“You need to take this seriously.”
“I am.”
“No.”
His voice became firm.
“I mean seriously enough to get her somewhere safe.”
I looked toward the staircase.
“I understand.”
That afternoon, I made a decision.
Isabella would not sleep in that house again.
I didn't tell Beatriz.
I didn't ask permission.
I packed a small bag for my daughter.
She watched me.
“Are we going somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Is Mommy coming?”
“No.”
She looked relieved.
That answer told me everything.
Before we left, I went back into the laundry room.
The notebook was gone.
I searched the shelf.
Nothing.
The bucket was gone too.
The stool.
The gloves.
Everything.
Someone had cleaned the room.
I walked back upstairs.
Beatriz was standing in the hallway.
“You've been busy.”
I stared at her.
“Where is the notebook?”
She smiled.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“The one Isabella wrote in.”
“What notebook?”
I stepped closer.
“You took it.”
“Prove it.”
The words were calm.
Almost amused.
I realized then that Beatriz had stopped pretending to be afraid.
She knew I had discovered something.
And she believed she was still in control.
“You know,” she said quietly, “you could make this very difficult.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone.”
“Good.”
She frowned.
“I don't think you understand what you're risking.”
“I understand exactly what I'm risking.”
She lowered her voice.
“You should ask yourself why I had to discipline her.”
“I already know.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You don't.”
She walked past me.
At the end of the hallway, she stopped.
Then looked back.
“Ask your business partner.”
My blood went cold.
“What does he have to do with this?”
She smiled.
“You'll find out.”
Then she walked away.
That night, Isabella and I stayed at a hotel.
She slept beside me.
I stayed awake.
My business partner.
Beatriz had mentioned him for a reason.
I called him.
He answered immediately.
“Alvarez?”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Did Beatriz contact you?”
Silence.
“Carlos?”
“Yes.”
“What did she want?”
Another pause.
Then he said:
“We need to talk.”
“About Isabella?”
Silence.
“Carlos.”
“I didn't know it would go this far.”
My heart stopped.
“What did you do?”
“I thought she only wanted help with the house.”
“What does that mean?”
“She asked me to handle some payments.”
“What payments?”
“Household expenses.”
“Why would she need you?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
His voice shook.
“I swear, I didn't know about the child.”
I sat up.
“What child?”
Silence.
“What child, Carlos?”
He whispered:
“There are people asking questions about Isabella.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Carlos.”
“I swear.”
“Tell me everything.”
He hesitated.
Then:
“Beatriz wasn't supposed to hurt her.”
I stared into the darkness.
“What was she supposed to do?”
Carlos took a breath.
“She was supposed to make you believe Isabella was unstable.”
My blood turned cold.
“Why?”
“So that when you came back…”
He stopped.
“Say it.”
“…you would agree to let Beatriz handle her future.”
I looked at my sleeping daughter.
Her face was peaceful.
For the first time in months.
“Why would I do that?”
Carlos whispered:
“Because the plan was to make you believe you were losing your daughter.”
The call ended.
I stared at Isabella.
Then at the dark window.
The bruises were not the whole story.
The garbage was not the whole story.
The missing medical record was not the whole story.
Someone had been building a case against my own daughter.
And Beatriz wasn't acting alone.
I pulled the blanket higher over Isabella.
Then I made a promise to myself.
They had spent three months teaching my daughter to be afraid.
I would spend however long it took teaching her that she never had to be afraid again.
But first, I needed to know who was behind the plan.
Because if Carlos was telling the truth, Beatriz hadn't started this.
May you like
She had been following instructions.
And somewhere in Marbella, someone more powerful than my wife was waiting for me to discover the next piece.
