Chapter 2 - THE UNMASKING
"What did I tell you about leaving those disgusting toys on the rug?" Patricia’s voice sliced through the speaker—sharp, shrill, and entirely devoid of the smooth, melodic tone she used when speaking to me.
On screen six, both of my daughters physically flinched.
It wasn't a normal, surprised jump of a child being interrupted at play. It was a violent, synchronized contraction of their small bodies—a reflexive recoil. Martina’s hand instantly flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror. Daniela didn't drop her book; she clamped it shut with a loud snap, her entire frame going rigid as she pulled her legs tightly under her body.
My blood ran instantly cold. The air in the monitoring room felt as if it had been drained of oxygen in a single second.
Patricia strode into the center of the playroom. She didn't look at Daniela. Her focus was entirely on Martina’s stuffed rabbit, Barnaby, which was sitting on the edge of the low oak coffee table.
"I asked you a question, Daniela," Patricia hissed, taking another step forward. She picked up the rabbit by its faded ear, holding it between two fingers as if it were a dead rodent. "Is this house a museum, or is it a barn? Do you think your father pays millions of dollars for this estate so you can litter it with trash?"
"It’s not trash," Daniela said, her voice barely a whisper, her chin trembling as she tried to stand up. "Martina was just—"
"Silence!" Patricia snapped, her hand shooting out, her index finger pointed inches from Daniela's nose. "Do not speak back to me! You think because your father is on a plane to Switzerland you can do whatever you want? You think you run this house?"
"No, Patricia," Daniela murmured, dropping her gaze instantly to the floor.
"Look at me when I’m talking to you!" Patricia barked.
Daniela forced her head up. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she didn't let them fall. She stared at Patricia with a look that chilled me to the absolute core—a look of exhausted, hollow submission.
In the dark room, my hands tightened around the edge of the console until my knuckles turned stark white. My breath was coming in short, jagged gasps.
They aren't scared because she's yelling, my brain screamed at me, the terrifying truth dawning with the force of a freight train. They're scared because they know what comes next. They've seen this face before. They've heard this voice before.
"Patricia... please," Martina sobbed, reaching out a tiny, trembling hand toward the stuffed rabbit. "Barnaby is clean... I washed him with Rosa..."
"I don't care about your stupid rabbit!" Patricia sneered.
With a vicious, fluid motion, she swung her arm back and hurled the plush toy across the room. It struck the glass of the display cabinet with a loud thud before falling uselessly into the brass fireplace grate.
Martina let out a small, strangled wail, burying her face in her knees. Daniela immediately threw her arm over her sister's shoulders, pulling Martina’s small body against her side, using her own frame as a human shield between her sister and my fiancée.
"If I see another toy in this room before lunch," Patricia said, her voice dropping into a low, venomous threaten, "I will have the gardeners throw every single one of them into the incinerator. Do you understand me? Both of you."
Neither girl answered. They just sat curled together on the rug, trembling.
"Answer me!" Patricia took a step closer, her hand reaching down toward Daniela's collar.
"Miss Patricia."
The voice came from the doorway of the playroom—quiet, flat, completely unbothered.
Patricia stopped mid-stride, her hand hovering in mid-air. She turned around slowly, her face twisting into an expression of profound disgust.
Rosa stood in the doorframe.
She was carrying a stack of freshly folded white towels in her arms. She hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't run into the room. She stood perfectly still, her dark eyes fixed entirely on Patricia.
"What are you doing here?" Patricia demanded, her chest heaving slightly as she tried to adjust her posture. "Did I call for you?"
"The towels for the master bath are ready, ma'am," Rosa said evenly. She didn't look at the girls, but her body shifted subtly—just two inches to the left—placing herself directly in the line of sight between Patricia and my daughters. "And Mr. Duarte left strict instructions before he departed. The girls are to have their morning snack at ten o'clock."
"Mr. Duarte is not here," Patricia snapped, stepping closer to Rosa until their faces were barely a foot apart. "I am in charge of this house now. And if I say they don't eat until this room is spotless, then they don't eat."
Rosa didn't flinch. She didn't lower her head. For five seconds, an agonizing, electric silence filled the playroom as the two women stared at each other.
"The kitchen is prepared, Miss Patricia," Rosa repeated, her tone completely calm, completely devoid of fear. "If you wish to change the schedule Mr. Duarte wrote down, I will need you to sign the domestic logbook so I can present it to him upon his return on Thursday."
Patricia’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. Her jaw worked back and forth as if she were chewing on glass.
"You think you're very clever, don't you?" Patricia whispered, leaning in so close her lips almost touched Rosa's ear. "You think because he trusts you to scrub his floors that you have power here? You're a servant, Rosa. A temporary, disposable servant. By the time Emiliano comes back from Geneva, your bags will be sitting on the curb outside the gate."
Rosa didn't answer. She simply stood her ground, an immovable grey line between my children and the woman I had promised to marry.
"Clean this room," Patricia spat, turning on her heel. "And get those miserable brats out of my sight."
She swept out of the room, her high heels clattering down the hall toward the master suite until the sound finally faded into the distance.
The moment the doorway was empty, the atmosphere on the screen changed instantly.
Rosa set the towels down on a chair. She didn't yell. She didn't panic. She walked quickly across the room, knelt down on the rug, and pulled both of my daughters into her arms.
Martina erupted into loud, desperate sobs, clinging to Rosa's linen collar with both hands. Daniela collapsed against Rosa's shoulder, her small frame shaking violently as the tears she had held back finally spilled over her cheeks.
"It's okay, my sweet girl," Rosa whispered, her voice carrying clearly through the surveillance speaker as she rocked them back and forth. "It's okay. I'm here. She's gone."
"She thrown Barnaby..." Martina wailed, pointing a wet finger toward the fireplace.
"I know, heart. I know. I'll get him right now." Rosa reached out, picked up the stuffed rabbit from the grate, dusted it off carefully with her apron, and placed it gently back into Martina's arms.
"Is Daddy really coming back on Thursday?" Daniela asked, looking up at Rosa with eyes that broke my heart into a thousand pieces. "Why does he leave us with her? Why doesn't he see?"
Rosa squeezed Daniela's hands tightly, wiping a tear from the girl's cheek with her thumb. "Your father works very hard for you, Daniela. He loves you more than his own life. He just... he doesn't know. He sees what she wants him to see."
"I hate her," Daniela sobbed softly. "I want Mom back. I want Daddy to stay home."
"Shh," Rosa murmured, kissing the top of Daniela's head. "Don't say that. We are going to be strong. I won't let her hurt you. I promise you, on your mother's memory, I will not let her hurt you."
In the dark monitoring room, I sat frozen.
A cold, terrifying nausea rose from my stomach, filling my throat with the bitter taste of bile. My hands were shaking uncontrollably now. The room seemed to tilt around me, the blue light of the monitors burning into my retina like acid.
She wasn't stealing from me, my mind screamed, every lie Patricia had fed me over the last six months exploding into dust. She wasn't manipulating them. She was protecting them from the monster I brought into my own home.
I looked at Marcus.
The security chief was standing at absolute attention, his face pale, his jaw set like concrete. He met my eyes, and for the first time in eight years, I saw deep, unvarnished pity in his expression.
"Mr. Duarte..." Marcus said quietly.
"How long?" I whispered. My voice was a gravelly rasp. "How long has this been happening, Marcus?"
"I don't know, sir," Marcus answered honestly. "Miss Patricia always insisted on absolute privacy when you were away. She specifically requested that the interior security patrols be suspended during her stays."
I stood up from the chair so fast it crashed backward against the wall. The blood was roaring in my ears—a deafening, frantic surge of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated rage.
"Sir," Marcus warned, stepping in front of the door. "What are your orders?"
"Get out of my way," I growled, my vision blurring at the edges. "I'm going to throw that woman off my balcony."
"No, sir," Marcus said firmly, standing his ground. "If you go up there right now in a rage, she will play the victim. She will call her lawyers, she will claim you attacked her, she will twist this. You need to see everything. You need to know how deep this goes before you strike."
I stared at him, my breath coming in hot, ragged bursts.
"Look at the screens, Mr. Duarte," Marcus urged softly, pointing back at the wall of light. "She thinks you're in the air over the Atlantic. She thinks she has four days. Let her show us every single card in her hand."
I looked back at screen six.
Rosa was sitting on the floor, holding my daughters close, whispering softly to them while they dried their tears. They looked small, fragile, and utterly dependent on a woman I had been three hours away from firing.
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I swallowed the fire in my throat, forcing my mind—the cold, calculating mind that had built an empire—back into control.
"Keep the cameras recording," I said, my voice dropping into a register so dark and cold it barely sounded like my own. "Every room. Every second. We don't miss a single word."
