Alejandro’s expression warms again.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No,” you say, then soften quickly. “Please. I need a minute alone. I’m embarrassed.”
That works.
Men like Alejandro trust shame because they have used it successfully.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll check on you soon.”
You climb the stairs slowly, holding the rail.
Weak.
Dizzy.
Defeated.
A perfect performance.
Only when you reach the bathroom and lock the door do you open your fist.
The capsule lies damp in your palm.
You place it inside a small jewelry bag, then hide it in the back of your makeup case. Your hands shake so violently you have to sit on the closed toilet lid.
You do not cry.
Not yet.
Crying belongs to later.
Tonight is for staying alive.
You turn on the shower to cover sound, take out your phone, and call the only person you trust more than fear.
Your father’s lawyer.
Licenciada Inés Márquez.
She answers on the third ring.
“Mariana? It’s late.”
“My husband has been drugging me.”
The line goes silent.
Then her voice changes.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Are you safe?”
“No.”
“Can you leave?”
You look toward the bathroom door.
Outside, footsteps move in the hallway.
Alejandro.
“Not yet.”
Márquez does not waste time.
“Do not confront him. Do not eat or drink anything in that house. Keep the bottle, the capsule, and your clothing from tonight. Send me your location live. I’ll dispatch a private medical team and a notary. We need toxicology immediately.”
“He wants to have me declared incapable.”
“I know.”
That answer stops you.
“What?”
Márquez exhales sharply.
“Your father anticipated this possibility. Not Alejandro specifically. But he built safeguards into the control structure of Grupo Salazar. If anyone petitions for your incapacity, three independent medical evaluations are required, and your legal protector must be notified.”
“Legal protector?”
“Me.”
For the first time all night, air enters your lungs fully.
Your father.
Dead five years, and still standing between you and the wolves.
A soft knock comes at the bathroom door.
“Mariana?” Alejandro calls. “Are you okay?”
You turn off the shower.
“I’m changing.”
Márquez whispers, “Put the phone on mute. Keep the call open.”
You do.
Then you open the door slightly.
Alejandro stands there holding one of your silk nightgowns.
The blue one.
The one he likes.
The sight of it makes your skin crawl.
“You were taking a long time,” he says.
You force a tired smile.
“I’m sorry.”
He steps inside without asking.
His eyes scan the bathroom.
Counter.
Sink.
Trash.
Your hands.
You let them hang loose.
Empty.
He moves closer.
“You scared me tonight.”
