Chapter 2 - The House of Cards
The shock in Rafael’s eyes dissolved into blind panic within thirty seconds. His phone began vibrating uncontrollably—first his chief financial officer, then the head of operations, followed by a frantic text from their primary maritime insurer. By the time Mariana’s personal assistant called her twice in rapid succession, the matriarch’s mask of aristocratic boredom had completely shattered.
“What did you do?” Mariana demanded, her voice losing its honeyed cadence, replaced by the sharp screech of a cornered predator. She half-rose from the booth, her manicured fingers clawing at the edge of the table. “Rafael, fix this. Whatever petty stunt your little wife is pulling—”
“It’s not a stunt, Mariana,” I interrupted, looking down at them both with a pity that cut deeper than any insult they had ever thrown my way. “It’s an audit. And your audit score is zero.”
I turned and walked away from the table. The waiters, who moments before had looked at me with pity or disdain, now parted like the Red Sea. The maître d’ stepped forward, looking terrified, but I simply laid a crisp hundred-euro bill on the nearest podium—more than enough to cover the wine he had wasted—and walked out into the cool Madrid night.
The crisp air hit my wet skin, grounding me. My hands weren't shaking anymore. For three years, I had played the part of the quiet, out-of-depth provincial girl Rafael had rescued from obscurity. They had weaponized my polite silence, mistaking it for weakness. They didn't know that my father hadn't been a simple accountant, as Rafael liked to mocking tell his colleagues; he was the forensic liquidator who had dismantled half the corrupt corporate portfolios in central Spain.
My phone rang. It was Rafael. I declined the call, blocked the number, and stepped into a waiting taxi.
May you like
“Calle Almagro,” I told the driver.
My real life was waiting there. And the Delgados were about to find out what happens when you bite the hand that feeds your entire dynasty.
