Chapter 4 - The Tables Turn
At precisely 7:45 PM, Patricia was lounging on the velvet sofa in the formal living room, dressed in a stunning evening gown, expecting me to call from a European hotel room to wish her a good night. Instead, the heavy oak front doors of the mansion swung wide open.
My footsteps echoed sharply across the marble foyer.
Patricia gasped, sitting up abruptly as I walked into the room, my suitcase still in my hand, looking as though I had just stepped off a transatlantic flight.
“Emiliano! You... you’re back early?” she stammered, her face instantly twisting into a mask of confused, highly practiced innocence. “Is everything alright with the European acquisition? Why didn't you call?”
I didn't answer her immediately. I dropped my suitcase onto the floor with a dull, heavy thud that reverberated through the quiet room. Behind me walked two unfamiliar men in sharp dark suits—my corporate legal counsel—followed closely by Vance and, standing slightly behind them with a hesitant, fearful expression, Rosa.
Patricia’s eyes darted toward Rosa, a flash of pure venom crossing her features before she quickly masked it with a wounded pout. “What is the meaning of this? Why is the maid in the formal drawing room? And why are these men here?”
“Sit down, Patricia,” I said. My voice wasn't raised. It was quiet, steady, and utterly devoid of warmth. It was the voice I used right before I crushed a competitor’s stock portfolio into oblivion.
Patricia froze, her eyes narrowing as she sensed the shift in the air. She didn't sit. “Emiliano, what has gotten into you? Did that woman fill your head with more lies while you were away?”
“Rosa hasn't said a single word to me since I walked back into this house,” I replied, stepping closer until I stood directly under the crystal chandelier, looking down at her. “In fact, Rosa hasn't said nearly enough about what goes on within these walls when I’m busy chasing money.”
I raised my hand and snapped my fingers once. Vance stepped forward, placing a heavy tablet onto the coffee table right in front of Patricia. The screen immediately lit up, playing crisp, high-definition footage of the exact moment earlier that day when Patricia had snatched Martina’s stuffed rabbit, hurled it across the room, and terrorized my daughters.
The color drained entirely from Patricia’s face. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
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“You... you spied on me?” she whispered, horror creeping into her voice.
“I secured my home,” I corrected coldly. “From a parasite who thought she could abuse my children, isolate my loyal staff, and manipulate me into cutting off the people who actually love this family.”
