Chapter 3 - THE WEB OF LIES
For the next three hours, I sat in that dark, subterranean room and watched the woman I had loved systematically dismantle my home.
It was an education in cruelty—a masterclass in subtle, psychological torment that made my skin crawl.
At 11:30 AM, Patricia emerged from the master suite. She was fully dressed now, wearing a dark blue silk blouse and tailored white trousers. She walked into my private study—a room that was strictly off-limits to everyone except my personal assistant and me.
On screen three, I watched her walk behind my mahogany desk. She didn't hesitate. She pulled a key from her pocket—a duplicate key she must have had made without my knowledge—and unlocked the bottom drawer of my safe.
"Zoom in on screen three," I commanded.
Marcus tapped the control panel. The central monitor zoomed in on her hands.
Patricia reached inside the safe and pulled out a heavy velvet box containing my late wife’s jewelry—pieces I had set aside specifically for Daniela and Martina when they turned eighteen. Elena’s diamond tennis bracelet. Her emerald engagement ring. A vintage Cartier watch passed down through Elena’s family.
Patricia opened the box. A cold, hungry smile touched her lips.
She picked up the emerald ring, holding it up to the overhead light, admiring the way the green stone caught the illumination. Then, with casual, practiced precision, she pulled a small leather pouch from her handbag, slipped the ring and the diamond bracelet inside, and zipped it shut.
She closed the velvet box, placed it back in the safe, locked the drawer, and slipped the key back into her pocket.
I sat motionless, my heart beating with a cold, rhythmic deadness.
“I realized one of my bracelets wasn’t where I’d left it,” Patricia’s voice echoed in my memory from two nights ago. “She’s stealing from you, Emiliano.”
She wasn't just abusing my daughters; she was actively laying a paper trail to frame Rosa for grand larceny. She was setting up a scenario where, upon my return from Europe, she would "discover" Elena's stolen jewelry hidden in Rosa's quarters, giving me no legal choice but to fire her and file criminal charges.
It was brilliant. It was methodical. It was sociopathic.
At 1:00 PM, Patricia walked down to the basement laundry room.
On screen nine, Rosa was standing at the ironing board, pressing a set of linen tablecloths.
Patricia walked into the frame, her hands tucked into her trousers pockets. She stopped near the door, watching Rosa work in silence for nearly two minutes.
"You're very stubborn, aren't you?" Patricia said. The audio feed picked up her voice with crystal clarity.
Rosa didn't stop ironing. "I have work to do, Miss Patricia."
"You think he's going to marry me, don't you?" Patricia asked, a faint, mocking laugh escaping her throat. "You think after the wedding, things will stay the same? You think you'll still be here, playing surrogate mother to those two broken little girls?"
Rosa set the iron down on its heel. She turned slowly to face Patricia.
"Mr. Duarte loves his daughters," Rosa said softly. "He is a good man. He is just grieving."
"He is a weak man," Patricia corrected, her voice dripping with contempt. "He’s a man who spends sixteen hours a day staring at financial spreadsheets because he’s too terrified to look his own children in the eye. He doesn't want daughters, Rosa. He wants accessories that look neat in family portraits. And once I am Mrs. Duarte, those girls are going to boarding school in Switzerland."
Rosa’s posture went instantly rigid. "Mr. Duarte would never send them away."
"He will do whatever I tell him to do," Patricia said, taking a step closer, her voice dropping into an intimate, cruel purr. "Because I know how to handle men like him. He wants peace. He wants a pristine house. He wants a beautiful, cultured wife on his arm at the charity galas. He doesn't want the mess of two traumatized children crying about their dead mother every night."
She reached out, her long, manicured fingernail tapping against the silver button of Rosa's linen uniform.
"And as for you," Patricia continued, "your time here is almost up. I've already placed three items from the safe into your closet downstairs. When Emiliano gets back on Thursday, the police will find them during a routine search. A convicted felon doesn't get custody of anything, Rosa. You'll be in a state penitentiary before the month is out."
Rosa’s eyes widened slightly, a sudden flicker of shock breaking through her stoic mask. "You... you framed me?"
"I am securing my house," Patricia said smoothly, turning back toward the stairs. "You should have taken the hint six months ago when I offered you ten thousand dollars to resign. Now? You get nothing. Except a record."
She walked up the wooden stairs, her laughter echoing lightly down the stairwell.
In the surveillance room, I felt as if my blood had turned to liquid nitrogen.
I looked at Marcus. "Did you record that?"
"Audio and high-definition video stored on two separate encrypted servers, sir," Marcus said, his voice deadly serious. "It’s admissible in any court in the country."
"Good," I whispered. "What else?"
"We ran a background check on Patricia’s personal accounts two hours ago, as you requested, Mr. Duarte," Marcus said, pulling a white paper folder from his jacket and laying it on the console in front of me. "Her family's real estate firm in Boston went bankrupt three years ago. She has over two million dollars in personal gambling debts tied to private casinos in Atlantic City and Macao. Her credit lines are maxed out."
I opened the folder. Page after page of financial red ink stared back at me. Lien notices. Final demands from offshore collection agencies. Wire transfers to high-stakes holding accounts.
She didn't love me. She didn't love my home. She didn't care about my daughters.
I was a life raft for a drowning predator. My wealth was the meat she needed to feed the wolves circling her door. And my daughters—my sweet, quiet, grieving girls—were merely collateral damage to be swept away into an overseas boarding school so they wouldn't interfere with her feast.
I closed the folder slowly.
The anger inside me didn't burn hot anymore. It crystallized into something terrifyingly absolute. A cold, relentless focus settled over my mind—the same focus I had used when stripping hostile takeover targets of their assets until there was nothing left but bone.
"Marcus," I said softly.
"Yes, Mr. Duarte?"
"Call my lead counsel, Vance. Tell him to draft three documents immediately: a formal termination of engagement, an immediate restraining order, and a criminal complaint for grand larceny and domestic endangerment."
"Understood, sir. And the police?"
"Not yet," I said, staring at screen six, where Daniela was sitting on the edge of her sister's bed, holding Martina's hand while Rosa read them a story from an old, dog-eared book. "I don't want a police squad car pulling up to my gates while my daughters are in that house. I don't want them exposed to any more fear."
"What is the plan, sir?"
I stood up, adjusting my cuffs, feeling the weight of the silver ring on my right hand.
"Patricia thinks she has four days," I whispered, looking at the screen where my fiancée was currently pouring herself a glass of my thirty-year-old scotch in the library. "She thinks she is the hunter, and we are the prey."
I turned to face Marcus.
"We are going to give her twenty-four hours," I said. "Let her feel completely secure. Let her build her little fortress of lies until she believes she has won entirely."
May you like
"And then?" Marcus asked, a faint, dangerous glint appearing in his eyes.
"And then," I said, "I am going to walk through the front door."
