Chapter 8 - The Fiancée’s True Colors
8 - 15
The silence that fell over Suite 402 was heavier than the concrete walls of the panic room. Marisol stared at the prosecutor in sheer disbelief, while Diego’s face drained of color, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.
“Paulina?” Diego repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. “My fiancée?”
“She wasn't just your fiancée, Mr. Villaseñor,” Prosecutor Hernández said, flipping open a secondary folder and sliding a series of printed financial logs across the mattress. “According to our forensic accountants, Paulina Robles has been receiving regular, multi-million-dollar wire transfers from the exact offshore shell companies that funded Valeria’s operations. She was the one who introduced Valeria to the corporate syndicates two years ago. She was placed in your orbit deliberately to monitor your personal life, report your movements, and ensure that no unexpected heirs or former relationships ever disrupted the board’s control over your estate.”
Marisol felt the breath catch in her throat. She looked down at sleeping Valentina, realizing with a sickening shudder of horror how close they had come to total destruction. Paulina wasn't just an arrogant, high-society snob who hated children; she was an operative planted in their home—a viper nesting right beside Diego’s pillow.
Diego stared at the financial records, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the hospital blanket. All the memories of the past six months flooded back into his mind—how Paulina had wormed her way into his mansion, how aggressively she had pushed to isolate him from his old associates, how violently she had reacted to the mere presence of a three-year-old child in the hallways.
It wasn't just snobbery. It was panic. Paulina had known that if Valentina ever caught Diego’s attention, the genetic reality would come to light, and the entire corporate conspiracy would unravel like a cheap sweater.
“Where is she now?” Diego asked, his voice dead, devoid of any human warmth.
“She was picked up at the private hangar in Toluca fifteen minutes after Valeria’s arrest,” Prosecutor Hernández replied calmly. “She’s currently sitting in an interrogation cell at the federal district attorney’s office, screaming for her lawyers and demanding to speak to you.”
Diego slowly pulled his hand back from Marisol’s, resting his palm flat against the mattress. He looked at Commander Ramos standing by the door.
“Ramos,” Diego commanded quietly.
“Sir?”
“Prepare a wheelchair. And have my legal team draft a formal press release announcing the immediate termination of my engagement, the absolute revocation of all Paulina Robles’s access to my name and assets, and her joint indictment with Morales and Valeria for conspiracy, corporate espionage, and attempted assassination.”
Ramos nodded crisply, a grim smile touching his lips. “Right away, Mr. Villaseñor.”
“Diego, you shouldn't be moving yet,” Marisol protested gently, placing a hand on his uninjured arm. “The doctor said you need at least forty-eight hours of strict bed rest.”
“I’ve spent three years resting while monsters played games with my life and my family,” Diego said, his dark eyes burning with absolute, unyielding determination. “It’s time to clean house. And I’m going to do it face-to-face.”
Twenty minutes later, flanked by Commander Ramos and three armed tactical guards, Diego rolled out of the VIP wing of the Santa Fe Medical Center and into a waiting armored transport vehicle.
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His destination: the Federal District Attorney’s interrogation facility in downtown Mexico City.
The woman who had tried to destroy his life was waiting in a cold, gray box. And Diego Villaseñor was finally ready to collect his answers.
