I was in the kitchen when she came in.

I had made coffee — something to do with my hands.

I was standing at the counter when she appeared in the doorway, still in the clothes she had left in.

Her expression was composed.

She had used the drive, wherever she had gone, to rebuild herself.

"We should talk," she said.

"Sit down."

She sat at the kitchen table.

I stayed at the counter.

"I overreacted earlier," she said.

"I want to explain myself properly."

"Go ahead."

She folded her hands on the table.

"Managing Isabella alone for three months was harder than I expected.

She's a difficult child — you may not see it because you're her father, but she pushes back constantly.

She refuses things.

She argues.

I was trying to give her structure."

"By making her drag garbage bags until her hands bled."

"That is a significant exaggeration."

"I have nine clips of footage that say otherwise."

The composure slipped.

Just for a second.

Her eyes moved to the side and back.

"The cameras cover the garden and the terrace," I said.

"And the hallway outside her room.

I watched all of it this evening."

Beatriz set both palms flat on the table.

"Whatever you think you saw—"

"I saw my daughter barefoot on stone, shaking with exhaustion, too frightened to stop working because you were watching from the railing." I set my coffee down.

"I saw Rosa come out and help her because she couldn't bear to watch anymore.

I saw you standing in Isabella's doorway at nearly midnight, speaking to her while she lay in bed.

And I watched her pull the blanket over her head when you left."

Beatriz said nothing.

"What did you say to her at night, Beatriz?"

"I was checking on her."

"At midnight."

"I couldn't sleep.

I looked in on her."

"Nine clips," I said.

"Three months of footage.

My attorney has certified copies as of this morning."

Her jaw tightened.

"You moved very fast."

"I learned from the best." I looked at her steadily.

"You told Isabella that you had a box.

That if she ever told me anything, you would show me what was in it and I would send her away."

The color left her face.

"I found the box," I said.

She stood up.

The chair scraped back hard.

"That is my private property—"

"The passport with the different name is your private property," I said.

"The account in Gibraltar is your private property.

The letter from Tomás is your private property.

The list of my assets written on the back of a bank statement in your handwriting — that is something else."

She stared at me.

"Sit down, Beatriz."

She didn't move.

"I am not going to argue with you," I said.

"I am not going to threaten you.

I am going to tell you what happens next, and then I'm going to ask you one question."

She sat down slowly.

"My attorney is filing for divorce tomorrow morning," I said.

"The grounds include documented child neglect and evidence of financial fraud.

The footage, the documents, and the testimony of our housekeeper will all be part of the record.

I have also initiated a background investigation into your identity and your connection to the Malta holding company and to Tomás."

Her breathing had changed.

She was controlling it carefully.

"The question," I said, "is whether you want to do this the hard way or the simple way."

"What is the simple way?"

"You sign the separation agreement Señora Vidal is preparing.

You make no claim on the jointly held properties.

You leave the villa within forty-eight hours.

And you never contact Isabella again."

Beatriz looked at me for a long time.

Then something shifted behind her eyes.

The composed woman disappeared.

What replaced her was something colder and more deliberate.

"You think you know what's in that box," she said.

"You don't know half of it."

"Then tell me the other half."

She smiled.

It was not the warm smile I had known.

It was the smile of someone who has just decided to change the rules.

"Tomás is my brother," she said.

"And he has been very interested in your company for a long time.

Not just the properties I suggested you transfer.

All of it." She tilted her head.

"You should ask your attorney how many of your subsidiary agreements contain a spousal interest clause.

Because I did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Walk away cleanly," she said, "and none of that becomes a problem.

Push me — and I will make the next two years of your life very expensive."

I looked at her for a moment.

Then I reached into my pocket and set my phone on the table between us.

The recording app was running.

It had been running since she walked through the door.

Beatriz looked at the phone.

She looked at me.

"The simple way," I said, "is still available."