Chapter 2 - The Velvet TrapThe silence in the study was so thick it felt physical. I didn't flinch; I kept my hand casually resting over the leather journal on the desk, my pulse pounding like a war drum against my ribs.
"You're awake early, Camila," I replied, my voice dropping into an icy register that made her pause mid-step.
She tilted her head, a slow, calculated smile spreading across her lips. It was a terrifying transformation—the fragile, elegant socialite evaporating to reveal the cold tactician beneath. She walked closer, her gaze dropping to the open lockbox and the brass key resting beside it.
"Rosa has a big mouth," Camila murmured, her voice smooth as silk. "I always said she lacked discipline. It's a shame. I offered her a generous severance package to leave the estate quietly, but some people just don't know when to accept a blessing."
"You pushed her through an antique mirror," I said, standing up slowly so that I towered over the desk. "You beat her, you tried to drag her away like trash, and you stole documents belonging to my family."
Camila didn't look scared. In fact, she let out a low, mocking laugh.
"Alejandro, please. Look at the bigger picture. For four years, I have shaped Grupo Valdés into a modern corporate titan. Your father’s old-fashioned methods would have driven the company into bankruptcy by now. I modernized our contracts, I secured the Asian logistics routes, and yes—I redirected a fraction of surplus capital to secure our future. Your signature was on every single document. Legally, you are just as culpable as I am."
"You forged my signature using my master credentials while I slept," I spat back.
"And who do you think the board of directors will believe?" she countered, stepping right up to the edge of the desk, her face inches from mine. The scent of her expensive jasmine perfume now smelled sickeningly sweet, like decay. "The visionary CEO whose fiancée is an international business strategist, or a grieving, unstable man who has been hallucinating ghosts of his dead brother for six years?"
"Nicolás isn't dead," I said quietly.
For the first time, a micro-expression of genuine shock flickered across Camila’s face. Her eyes darted toward the journal.
"He survived the boat wreck," I continued, feeding off her momentary panic. "And his son, Mateo, holds thirty-one percent of the voting shares under our grandfather's original trust—shares that automatically reactivate upon the bloodline heir reaching seven years of age, which happens to be next week."
Camila’s jaw tightened. The mask was completely gone now.
"Then it’s a good thing," she whispered, her hand sliding slowly toward the pocket of her silk robe, "that accidents happen so easily in this city."
Before she could pull whatever weapon was hidden in her pocket, I lunged forward, grabbing her wrist with crushing force. She gasped, dropping a small, heavy tactical taser onto the rug.
"You're done, Camila," I said, my voice vibrating with fury. "The security cameras in the hallway caught you dragging Rosa. The hospital has her medical report and her sworn statement. And right here," I tapped the leather journal, "is everything the federal prosecutor needs to tear your entire syndicate apart."
Camila stared at me, panting lightly, but instead of screaming or fighting back, a chilling calmness settled over her features. She looked past me toward the courtyard windows.
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"You think you've won because you have a notebook?" she whispered, smiling darkly. "Alejandro... look outside."
I turned my head toward the French doors just as the estate's main security monitors on my desktop flashed to life. The front gates had just been breached. Three unmarked black SUVs were barreling up the cobblestone driveway, their headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom like searchlights.
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