Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Garden
The private garden of the Villarreal estate was a vast, multi-acre sanctuary surrounded by twelve-foot stone walls covered in dark green ivy. Tall cypress trees shielded the lawn from outside eyes, and a white marble gazebo stood near a cascading stone fountain in the center.
Alejandro sat on the wrought-iron bench inside the gazebo, setting Renata gently on his lap.
The little girl remained completely silent, her knees tucked against her chest, her big dark eyes darting nervously toward the house glass doors every few seconds.
"She can't hear us out here, Renata," Alejandro whispered softly, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her forehead. "It's just you and Daddy."
Renata looked up at him, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Daddy... am I a bad girl?"
The question hit Alejandro like a sledgehammer to the sternum. He pulled her closer, pressing a long, desperate kiss against her soft hair, holding back the fierce roar of agony in his throat.
"No, my sweet star," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "You are the best girl in the whole wide world. You are Mommy Sofia’s miracle, and you are my whole heart. Why would you ever think you're bad?"
"Because... because my tummy is weak," Renata whimpered, her tiny fingers tangling in his silk tie. "Mommy Estefanía says I make you sad because I'm not strong. She says if I don't do the standing exercises, God will take you away like He took Mommy Sofia..."
Alejandro closed his eyes, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw muscles throbbed.
Psychological warfare on a four-year-old child.
Estefanía wasn't just physically punishing her; she was using the tragedy of her mother’s death to instil a paralyzing existential guilt in the girl's mind. She was teaching Renata that any complaint, any cry for help, would cause her father to die.
"Listen to me, Renata," Alejandro said, lifting her small chin so her eyes met his with absolute intensity. "Look at Daddy."
The little girl looked into his dark, fierce eyes.
"Nothing is going to happen to me," Alejandro said, every word slow, clear, and stamped with absolute authority. "God is not going to take me away. You do not make me sad. You are my greatest joy. Do you understand me? Mommy Estefanía lied to you."
Renata’s eyes widened in shock. To a four-year-old, adults were absolute figures of truth. Hearing her father explicitly call Estefanía a liar shattered the terrifying spell that had held her captive for months.
At that moment, Doña Lupita walked down the stone path carrying a silver tray.
On it was a steaming porcelain bowl of clear chicken broth with tender white rice and tiny shredded pieces of chicken breast, alongside a tall glass of fresh, amber apple juice.
Lupita set the tray down on the gazebo table, her eyes glistening with nervous hope. "Here you go, my little angel," she whispered softly.
Renata stared at the bowl. Her small tongue flicked over her dry lips. The smell of real, warm food hit her senses, and a loud, painful rumble echoed from her little stomach.
She looked at the spoon, then looked at the house doors, flinching.
"Eat, sweetheart," Alejandro encouraged gently, picking up the silver spoon and blowing on a small bite of broth and rice. "It's for you."
Renata opened her mouth tentatively and took the bite.
The moment the warm broth hit her tongue, tears spilled over her lashes. She swallowed frantically, then reached out with her own tiny hands, grabbing the spoon herself. She began eating with a desperate, heartbreaking hunger—shoveling the rice into her mouth, barely chewing, drinking the warm broth straight from the bowl like a child who hadn't seen food in days.
Alejandro watched her, his hand trembling on the table.
A four-year-old heiress to a multi-hundred-million-dollar fortune, living in a palace of marble and silk, starving on a diet of bitter grass and laxatives while her stepmother spent twenty thousand dollars a month on designer clothes.
"Slow down, sweet star," Alejandro whispered, rubbing her small back as she drank the apple juice in three giant gulps. "There's plenty more. Daddy will never let you be hungry again."
While Renata finished the bowl, Alejandro’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out. It was a encrypted text message from Mateo:
[MATEO]: Team is in position. Signal intercept active. We just tapped Estefanía’s secondary private line. She just placed an outgoing call to Dr. Peralta’s clinic in Polanco. Sending audio file now.
Alejandro attached a tiny wireless earpiece into his left ear and hit play on the encrypted audio file.
A female voice—Estefanía—sounded through the earpiece, pitched high with nervous frustration:
"Peralta! We have a problem. Alejandro’s flight was canceled. He came back early and he's already interfering with the kid's routine... He's feeding her right now in the garden!"
A man’s slick, relaxed voice replied:
"Calm down, Estefanía. Alejandro doesn't know anything about medicine. Just tell him the child had a severe allergic reaction to the starches tonight. I'll drop by the house at six o'clock, perform a routine examination, and issue a formal medical order prescribing total bed rest and the liquid protocol. He won't question a certified gastroenterologist."
Estefanía let out a bitter laugh:
"He'd better not. My trust fund application with his legal team is set for review next Friday. If he starts digging into the kid's health records before I get executive power over the family trust, everything falls apart. Make sure the liquid prescription looks legitimate, Peralta. I'm doubling your fee."
"Consider it done, my dear. See you at six."
The line went dead.
Alejandro sat in the quiet gazebo, the afternoon breeze rustling the ivy leaves around him.
The full puzzle was finally assembled.
Estefanía didn't just hate Renata. She was using Renata’s fabricated "chronic illness" to wear Alejandro down emotionally, position herself as the selfless, indispensable stepmother, and secure emergency administrative guardianship over the Villarreal Family Foundation trust—a fifty-million-dollar fund set up specifically for Renata’s future.
And Dr. Peralta was her paid accomplice, falsifying medical charts to provide legal cover for child abuse.
Alejandro removed the earpiece, his face turning into a cold, terrifying mask of absolute calm.
He looked down at Renata, who had finished every single grain of rice and was now resting her heavy, full belly against his chest, her long eyelashes fluttering as she finally fell into a deep, peaceful sleep in her father's arms.
May you like
Alejandro stroked her dark hair gently, bowing his head.
"Sleep, my darling," Alejandro whispered into the quiet garden air. "At six o'clock, the doctor arrives. And by seven o'clock... the reign of Estefanía Villarreal ends forever."
