Chapter 4 - The Audit of the EstateBy 8:00 PM, the grand library of the Greenwich mansion was lit only by the amber glow of the desk lamps and the harsh flicker of Alejandro’s open laptop.
For the past three hours, Alejandro had not touched his briefcase, his corporate emails, or his Chicago merger documents. Instead, he had requested every single household ledger, nanny log, security camera archive, and financial disbursement record from Patricia’s office spanning the last three years.
The numbers told a devastating story.
For years, Alejandro had wired hundreds of thousands of dollars monthly to a joint family account managed by Patricia and Regina, believing it went toward elite tutors, private development programs, specialized nutrition, and round-the-clock care for the boys.
Instead, the ledgers revealed a staggering pattern of embezzlement and neglect.
Over seventy percent of the funds allocated for the children’s developmental care had been systematically diverted into offshore accounts controlled by Patricia, high-society charity boards run by Regina, and luxury purchases in Manhattan. Meanwhile, the boys had been relegated to the third-floor nursery, looked after by a revolving door of underpaid, overworked rotating nannies who quit within weeks—leaving Marisol, the humble housekeeper, to quietly pick up the pieces, feed them out of her own pocket, and shield them from the cold emotional vacuum of the mansion.
The heavy oak library door creaked open, and Patricia walked in without knocking, her face twisted in defensive indignation.
“Alejandro, this is ridiculous,” Patricia snapped, marching up to the mahogany desk. “Locking yourself in the library and refusing to come down for dinner? Mother is beside herself. We demand an explanation for this childish theatrical display. If you have an issue with the household budget, we can discuss it like civil adults tomorrow morning over coffee, not—”
“Sit down, Patricia,” Alejandro interrupted.
He didn't look up from his screen. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the cold, crushing force of an avalanche.
Patricia froze. “Excuse me?”
“I said, sit down.” Alejandro finally raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles etched beneath them from exhaustion and shock, but his gaze was razor-sharp. He turned the monitor around so she could see the glowing financial spreadsheet. “Care to explain why the educational fund for Mateo, Leonardo, Emiliano, and Nicholas shows zero disbursements to the private academy for the last fourteen months, while your personal clothing allowance at Bergdorf Goodman increased by four hundred percent?”
Patricia’s breath hitched. The color drained from her face so fast she looked like a ghost.
“That... that’s a administrative error,” Patricia stammered, her hands flying up to clutch her pearl necklace. “The accountants in New York must have miscategorized the operational overhead. You know how complex estate management is, Alejandro. You’re a corporate executive; you understand accounting discrepancies—”
“I run multi-billion-dollar logistics corporations, Patricia,” Alejandro cut her off, standing up slowly from his leather chair. “I know the difference between an accounting error and intentional corporate fraud. And make no mistake—what you and my mother have been doing with my sons’ trust funds isn’t just family mismanagement. It’s illegal.”
Patricia’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. She tried to maintain her aristocratic composure, but her hands were trembling violently. “You wouldn’t... you wouldn’t involve the authorities. We’re family! We took care of your boys after Clara died!”
“Did you?” Alejandro’s voice cracked with a raw, suppressed fury. He walked around the desk until he was standing inches away from her. “Did you take care of them, Patricia? Or did you lock them away in a nursery so they wouldn't inconvenience your social calendar? Did you know Nicholas is terrified of thunder? Did you know Mateo refuses to eat strawberries because they give him hives? Did you know who taught them how to tie their shoes?”
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Patricia stepped back, hitting the edge of a bookshelf. “That’s... that’s the nanny’s job! We provided financial stability, a roof over their heads, a prestigious Greenwich address—”
“Marisol did the job,” Alejandro interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “Marisol, who makes minimum wage, who cleans up after your messes, who was treated like an invisible ghost in this house—she is the only reason my sons know what love feels like. And as of right now, you and Mother are no longer welcome in this home.”
