Chapter 13 - THE LAST DINNER AT THE VILLA
I arrived at seven with security waiting outside the property.
Beatriz had prepared dinner.
Candles.
Wine.
White flowers.
For one absurd second, it looked like the evening she might have planned if I had returned from Dubai under normal circumstances.
She wore a dark green dress.
Her hair was tied back.
She looked tired.
“Sit.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Neither am I.”
We remained standing.
She poured wine anyway.
“Lucas told you I planned everything.”
“He said I had the situation backward.”
“He’s protecting himself.”
“Are you?”
She looked at me.
“I made mistakes with Isabella.”
“That isn’t the word I’d use.”
“I was too strict.”
“You frightened her.”
“She’s sensitive.”
I felt my anger rise.
Then I remembered Elena’s warning.
Don’t give Beatriz the reaction she wants.
I sat.
She did the same.
“Tell me about Aurelia Holdings.”
Her hand stopped near the wineglass.
So she hadn’t known I found it.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“Is it yours?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted something of my own.”
“Built with money taken from my companies?”
“That was Lucas.”
“The company belongs to you.”
“He structured it.”
I leaned forward.
“And the forged separation agreement?”
For the first time, Beatriz truly lost control.
Her face drained of color.
“That was never signed.”
“My signature is on it.”
“It was a draft.”
“With my forged signature.”
She stood.
“I wasn’t going to use it.”
“Then why create it?”
She turned away.
I let the silence stretch.
Finally, she spoke.
“You don’t understand what it’s like being married to you.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I waited.
“You control everything.”
“I never stopped you from working.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She turned.
“You walk into rooms and everyone listens.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You leave for Dubai and entire companies rearrange themselves around you.”
“You have money nobody can touch.”
“You have Isabella.”
I stared at her.
There it was.
Not business.
Not marriage.
Resentment.
“She was always first.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“And I was always temporary.”
“So you punished an eight-year-old?”
Beatriz’s eyes flashed.
“I wanted her to stop acting like she owned the house.”
“She lives there.”
“She looked at me like I was replacing her mother.”
I stood.
“She was a child grieving her mother.”
Beatriz went silent.
The entire room changed.
My wife’s real anger had finally revealed itself.
She hadn’t been competing with me.
May you like
She had been competing with Isabella.
And with a woman who had been dead for six years.
