Chapter 4 — Beatriz’s Perfect Story
Chapter 4 — Beatriz’s Perfect Story
By seven the next morning, Beatriz had already begun telling her version of the truth.
I knew because my phone would not stop ringing.
First, my lawyer.
Then my brother.
Then two members of the board.
Then a family friend I had not spoken to in almost a year.
Everyone had heard something.
And somehow, every version ended the same way.
I was overreacting.
I was angry.
I was confused.
I was destroying my marriage.
And, most importantly, Isabella was supposedly the problem.
Beatriz had moved faster than I had expected.
She had built her story before I even realized there was a story to fight.
My lawyer, Andrés Molina, called at 7:12 a.m.
“Where are you?”
“Marbella.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Beatriz told me.”
I looked at Isabella.
She was eating breakfast quietly.
“Did she tell you where Isabella is?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And she says you've taken the child without her consent.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“She abused her.”
“Do you have evidence?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Three months of security footage.”
There was a pause.
“That's significant.”
“I know.”
“Where is it?”
“Safe.”
“Good. Do not send it to anyone yet.”
“Why?”
“Because Beatriz has already contacted another attorney.”
“Adrian Torres?”
Another pause.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Then you need to be careful.”
“What does he do?”
“He specializes in family disputes and asset protection.”
I frowned.
“Why would Beatriz need someone like that?”
Andrés lowered his voice.
“Because she is preparing for a legal battle.”
My stomach tightened.
“Over Isabella?”
“Over everything.”
I looked through the hotel window.
Marbella glittered beneath the morning sun.
Boats moved across the water.
Tourists walked along the promenade.
Everything looked normal.
But my life had become something else entirely.
“Tell me exactly what Beatriz is saying.”
Andrés sighed.
“She says you returned unexpectedly, became aggressive, accused her of mistreating Isabella, and removed the child from the family home.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“She says Isabella has behavioral issues.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
The story had already begun.
“Did she mention the bruises?”
“She says Isabella bruises easily.”
“And the garbage?”
“She says Isabella insisted on helping.”
“The laundry room?”
“She denies locking her there.”
“And the recordings?”
“She doesn't know you have them.”
I smiled without humor.
“Good.”
“Don't get comfortable.”
“Why?”
“Because she is building a narrative.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Andrés sounded serious.
“You don't understand. A narrative doesn't have to be true to be dangerous.”
He was right.
By noon, the story had reached people I didn't even know.
A local news site published a short article about a wealthy businessman allegedly involved in a “domestic dispute.”
It didn't mention Isabella by name.
But it mentioned an eight-year-old child.
It said a father had “removed his daughter from the marital home following an emotional confrontation.”
It quoted an unnamed source who claimed:
The mother had been concerned about the girl's increasingly unstable behavior.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I threw the phone onto the table.
“They're already doing it.”
Isabella looked up.
“Doing what?”
I immediately softened.
“Nothing.”
She watched me carefully.
She had become accustomed to adults hiding things.
I hated that.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you angry?”
“Not at you.”
“Are you going to fight Mommy?”
I sat beside her.
“I am going to protect you.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
Then she returned to her breakfast.
That simple trust hurt more than any accusation.
At one o'clock, I went to my company headquarters.
Javier was waiting.
He stood in the lobby in a charcoal suit.
Calm.
Professional.
Exactly as he had been for twelve years.
“Daniel.”
“Javier.”
He held out his hand.
I didn't take it.
His expression changed.
“Is something wrong?”
“Lots of things.”
He looked toward the elevators.
“Can we talk privately?”
“Yes.”
We entered my office.
He closed the door.
“I've heard about what happened.”
“I'm sure you have.”
“I wanted to make sure you're okay.”
“I'm fine.”
“And Isabella?”
“She's safe.”
He nodded.
“That is good.”
I watched him.
He was too calm.
“Did Beatriz call you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“What did she say?”
“That you were angry.”
“That's all?”
“She said there had been an argument.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“No.”
I walked to the window.
“You're lying.”
He froze.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I saw the footage.”
His face went pale.
“What footage?”
“The study.”
Silence.
“You and Beatriz.”
He didn't answer.
I turned.
“Why were you meeting my wife?”
Javier swallowed.
“For business.”
“What business?”
“Financial matters.”
“My finances?”
“Yes.”
“Without me?”
He hesitated.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you mean by your finances.”
I stared at him.
Then I placed a photograph on the desk.
The image from the security footage.
Beatriz.
Javier.
The study.
He looked at it.
His shoulders dropped.
“I can explain.”
“Start.”
He sat down.
“Beatriz asked me for help.”
“With what?”
“Your estate.”
My blood ran cold.
“What about it?”
“Your property holdings.”
“What about them?”
“She wanted to understand how they were structured.”
“Why?”
“She was concerned about Isabella's inheritance.”
I laughed.
There it was again.
The same story.
Isabella.
Her inheritance.
Her future.
Always her.
But somehow, every road led back to money.
“Javier.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you been working with Beatriz?”
He looked away.
“Six months.”
Six months.
The same period during which Beatriz had become increasingly controlling.
The same period during which several transfers had appeared in company accounts.
“Did you know she was hurting Isabella?”
“No.”
“Did you know she was collecting evidence against her?”
His silence answered.
I stepped closer.
“You knew.”
“I knew she was documenting incidents.”
“What incidents?”
“She said Isabella was becoming difficult.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I didn't know.”
“That's not an answer.”
He looked exhausted.
“No.”
I stared at him.
“You didn't believe her.”
“No.”
“Then why did you help her?”
Javier lowered his head.
“Because I thought the goal was your estate.”
I felt something cold move through me.
“What does that mean?”
He looked at me.
“She wanted control.”
“Of what?”
“Your shares.”
I sat down.
“How much?”
“Enough to change the voting structure.”
“How?”
“Through your marital assets.”
I stared at him.
“My shares are protected.”
“Most of them.”
“Most?”
“There are clauses in the company structure that can be challenged under certain circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“Loss of capacity.”
I understood.
They weren't trying to take the company from me by force.
They were trying to make me appear incapable of managing it.
And the perfect evidence would be a wealthy businessman behaving irrationally after his daughter became “unstable.”
I looked at him.
“Beatriz is building a case that I'm mentally unfit.”
He nodded.
“She believes she can force control of certain assets.”
“And Isabella?”
He hesitated.
“She would become part of the justification.”
My stomach turned.
“How?”
“If she can establish that you have become emotionally unstable because of your obsession with protecting her…”
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
I left the office without saying goodbye.
When I returned to the hotel, Isabella was sitting beside the window drawing.
“What are you drawing?”
She held up the paper.
A house.
Again.
But this time there were three people outside it.
Me.
Her.
Beatriz.
Beatriz was drawn behind a wall.
“Why is Mommy behind the wall?”
“Because she can't come in.”
I sat beside her.
“Why?”
“Because this is our safe house.”
I smiled.
“You've been thinking about that?”
“Yes.”
She pointed to me.
“You're here.”
Then herself.
“I'm here.”
Then the empty space beside us.
“And who is that?”
“Someone.”
“Who?”
“I don't know yet.”
I smiled.
“Fair enough.”
She looked at me.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Did Mommy tell people I'm bad?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
She looked down.
“I knew she would.”
“Why?”
“Because she told me.”
“What did she say?”
“That when you came home, she would tell you I was crazy.”
My heart stopped.
“Why?”
“Because then you would send me away.”
“Where?”
“She said somewhere far away.”
“Did she tell you where?”
“No.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said I would ruin your life.”
I pulled her into my arms.
“You could never ruin my life.”
She started crying.
“I tried to be good.”
“I know.”
“I cleaned everything.”
“I know.”
“I didn't tell anyone.”
“I know.”
“Why wasn't it enough?”
I held her tighter.
“Because none of this was your fault.”
That evening, I received a message from Beatriz.
We need to talk. Alone.
I didn't respond.
Another message.
You are making a terrible mistake.
Then:
You don't know what Isabella has been doing.
I stared at the screen.
Then another arrived.
Ask her what happened to the missing money.
I froze.
Missing money?
I looked toward Isabella.
She was asleep.
I called Andrés.
“What money?”
“I don't know.”
“Beatriz says Isabella stole money.”
There was silence.
“That's new.”
“Can she prove it?”
“I don't know.”
“Find out.”
“I'll investigate.”
“Tonight.”
“I'll try.”
“No.”
My voice hardened.
“Do it tonight.”
At midnight, Andrés called back.
“There is something.”
“What?”
“A cash withdrawal.”
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
“How much?”
“€8,000.”
I frowned.
“From where?”
“Your personal account.”
“I didn't withdraw it.”
“Neither did I.”
“Who had access?”
He hesitated.
“Beatriz.”
My blood ran cold.
“Was it cash?”
“Yes.”
“Any documentation?”
“There was a withdrawal slip.”
“Signature?”
“Yes.”
“Mine?”
“No.”
“Whose?”
“Beatriz's.”
I laughed.
“So she stole eight thousand euros and now claims Isabella stole money.”
“That's not all.”
“What else?”
“The money went somewhere.”
“Where?”
“A private account.”
“Whose?”
“That's the problem.”
“Why?”
“Because the account belongs to a company that doesn't officially exist.”
I sat up.
“What?”
“A shell company.”
“Who owns it?”
“We're still tracing it.”
“Call me when you know.”
“I will.”
The next morning, Beatriz appeared at the hotel.
She walked through the lobby like she owned the place.
Two lawyers followed her.
She looked beautiful.
Perfect.
Controlled.
The kind of woman strangers immediately trusted.
She approached me.
“Daniel.”
I stood.
“You shouldn't be here.”
“I am Isabella's mother.”
“You are not her legal mother.”
Her face hardened.
“She needs me.”
“No.”
“She needs stability.”
“She needs safety.”
“She needs discipline.”
“She needs a childhood.”
One of her lawyers stepped forward.
“Mr. Alvarez, perhaps we should keep emotional matters separate from legal ones.”
I looked at him.
“Then let's talk legally.”
“Certainly.”
“Do you have evidence that Isabella is unstable?”
He glanced at Beatriz.
“Yes.”
“Medical records?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
He named the doctor.
The same doctor Carmen had mentioned.
I smiled.
“Interesting.”
“What is?”
“That doctor examined my daughter for fifteen minutes.”
“He is qualified.”
“So is mine.”
“Your doctor is emotionally involved.”
“Then let's use an independent doctor.”
Beatriz interrupted.
“That isn't necessary.”
“Why?”
“She has already been evaluated.”
“By someone you chose.”
Silence.
I looked at the lawyer.
“Independent evaluation.”
He hesitated.
Then Beatriz spoke.
“You're trying to make me look like a monster.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“You're doing that yourself.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You think you can destroy me?”
“No.”
“I think you're going to destroy this family.”
I took a breath.
“You already did.”
Beatriz's lawyer opened a folder.
“There's another matter.”
“What?”
“Your wife's position is that you have become emotionally unstable.”
I laughed.
“Based on?”
“Your recent behavior.”
“Meaning?”
“You removed your daughter without consulting her mother.”
“She was being abused.”
“You accuse your wife without evidence.”
I looked at him.
“I have evidence.”
He paused.
“What evidence?”
I smiled.
“That's something you'll have to discover.”
For the first time, Beatriz looked genuinely nervous.
Her lawyer closed the folder.
“This will become complicated.”
“It already is.”
He stood.
“We will be in touch.”
Beatriz stayed.
She looked at me.
“You should listen to me.”
“I'm done listening.”
“You don't understand what you're doing.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“You're destroying everything.”
I looked at her.
“You're afraid.”
She said nothing.
“Why?”
She stared at me for several seconds.
Then whispered:
“Because you were never supposed to come home this early.”
I froze.
She realized what she'd said.
So did I.
“You knew my schedule.”
She immediately corrected herself.
“I meant—”
“You knew exactly when I was supposed to return.”
“No.”
“You knew I was coming back next week.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you say I wasn't supposed to come home?”
She said nothing.
I stepped closer.
“Who told you?”
Her face went pale.
“Who?”
She turned and walked away.
I didn't stop her.
I didn't need to.
She had given me another piece of the puzzle.
That afternoon, I called Javier.
“Find out who knew my travel schedule.”
“Why?”
“Because Beatriz knew.”
He was silent.
“Javier.”
“Yes?”
“Was my Dubai schedule confidential?”
“Mostly.”
“Who had access?”
“Senior management.”
“Names.”
He hesitated.
“Daniel…”
“Names.”
He sighed.
“Me.”
“Who else?”
“Your assistant.”
“Who else?”
“Your brother.”
I froze.
“My brother?”
“Yes.”
“What about Beatriz?”
“She shouldn't have had access.”
“But she knew.”
“Yes.”
I ended the call.
My brother.
I hadn't considered him.
Not once.
He lived in Madrid.
He had visited the villa twice during my absence.
He had told me he was checking on Beatriz and Isabella.
I had thanked him.
I had trusted him.
Now I remembered something.
Every time he visited, Beatriz seemed calmer.
Every time he called, she already knew details about my schedule.
Maybe that wasn't coincidence.
That night, I searched through my father's old business records.
My brother's name appeared repeatedly beside Javier's.
Not recently.
Years ago.
They had been involved in a property company that I had acquired without realizing they had once been partners.
I opened the corporate documents.
Then I saw the name.
The same shell company linked to the €8,000 withdrawal.
My brother.
My own brother was one of the directors.
I sat back.
For several minutes, I simply stared at the screen.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
Low.
Calm.
“You should stop investigating.”
I stood.
“Who is this?”
“You're putting your daughter in greater danger.”
“Who are you?”
“You have no idea how many people are involved.”
“Then tell me.”
A pause.
“You're looking in the wrong direction.”
“What does that mean?”
“The problem isn't Beatriz.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“Then who?”
The man laughed softly.
“You'll know soon enough.”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Then looked toward Isabella's bedroom.
The perfect story Beatriz had created was beginning to collapse.
But now I understood why she had been so confident.
She hadn't been working alone.
She had people inside my company.
People inside my family.
People who knew my schedule.
People who could manipulate medical records.
People who could move money.
People who could build a case against me.
And somewhere behind all of it was someone who had not yet shown his face.
I walked into Isabella's room.
She was asleep.
I sat beside her.
Her small hand rested outside the blanket.
I took it gently.
“I know the truth now,” I whispered.
She didn't wake.
“I may not know everything.”
I looked at her bruised wrist.
“But I'm going to find out.”
Outside the window, Marbella glittered beneath the moon.
Beautiful.
Expensive.
Deceptive.
Just like the life I thought I knew.
And somewhere in that city, someone was watching me.
Someone who believed my daughter could still be used against me.
They were wrong.
Because I was no longer trying to save my marriage.
I was no longer trying to protect my reputation.
I was no longer trying to preserve the empire I had spent my life building.
I had only one priority now.
May you like
Isabella.
And anyone who stood between me and my daughter was about to learn exactly how far a father would go when he finally understood what had been done to his child.
