Chapter 4 - THE DINNER ON THE TERRACE
At 7:30 PM, the golden Spanish sunset painted the Mediterranean in brilliant shades of amber, rose, and deep violet.
On the wide stone terrace overlooking the sea, a table had been set with fine white linen, silver cutlery, and two crystal wine glasses.
Beatriz sat at the table wearing an elegant navy-blue silk cocktail dress, diamond earrings catching the fading light, holding a glass of vintage Rioja.
She had spent the last two hours trying to regain control. She had ordered gourmet catering from a luxury restaurant in Puerto Banús, arranged fresh white lilies in the center of the table, and put on a performance of serene, apologetic wifely devotion.
I walked onto the terrace wearing a dark linen shirt and dark trousers.
I did not sit across from her. I walked to the stone balustrade, looking out over the private gardens below, where the two spilled trash bags still lay on the wet stones near the dumpsters.
"Isabella is asleep," I said, my back turned to her. "The private pediatric physician I had flown in from Malaga just finished treating her hands. She has second-degree friction blisters across both palms and severe muscular strain in her lumbar spine."
Beatriz set her wine glass down, forcing a soft, sympathetic pout onto her lips.
"I feel terrible about that, Alejandro," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sorrow. "I truly didn't realize how heavy those bags were. I was on a business call and wasn't paying close enough attention. I promise you, tomorrow morning I will personally interview five new housekeeping agencies. We will put this entire unfortunate day behind us."
"We won't be putting anything behind us, Beatriz," I replied softly.
I turned around slowly, walking toward the table.
I pulled my tablet from my pocket and set it down in front of her wine glass.
"Press play," I commanded.
Beatriz frowned, her manicured fingers hesitating over the screen. "What is this?"
"The last three months of your life," I said.
Beatriz pressed the glass.
The video from March 14th began to play in pristine 4K resolution. Her own venomous voice echoed across the quiet terrace:
“Your father doesn't care about you. He married me because he wanted a real woman, not a broken widower’s baggage...”
Beatriz’s hand froze mid-air.
The color drained from her face so completely that her skin looked like bleached paper. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted from the glowing screen up to my face, then back to the video showing her throwing Isabella’s teddy bear into the fireplace.
"Alejandro... wait..." she stammered, her voice cracking into a high-pitched, desperate panic. "This... this is taken out of context! The cameras... the cameras were supposed to be off!"
"The cameras in this house answer to the man who built it, Beatriz," I whispered, stepping up until my shadow swallowed the entire table.
"I can explain!" she gasped, standing up so fast her chair scraped violently against the stone flagstones. "I was stressed! I was overwhelmed managing this massive property alone while you were across the world! I lost my temper! It was a mistake!"
"A mistake?" I pulled a second folder from beneath my arm and slapped it onto the white tablecloth.
May you like
The heavy pages scattered across the linen: the Gibraltar bank transfers, the forged domestic staff severance forms, and thirty-four photographs of Beatriz meeting Javier de la Vega at a luxury beach club in Estepona over the last eight weeks.
Beatriz staggered backward against the balustrade, clutching her throat, the final remnants of her high-society composure completely incinerated.
