The thirteen times the heavy mansion gates swung shut with a dry thud, Marcos realized the problem was no longer about exhaustion, money, or the reputation of his family name.
It was something darker, more intimate, more unbearable—something that couldn’t be bought and couldn’t be dismissed with a single signature, something that seemed to grow inside this house like mold on the walls.
Fernanda, nanny number twelve, descended the stairs with a suitcase trembling in her hand, her eyes red, her mouth set hard, and an expression so shattered that Carmen stopped breathing for a moment.
No woman who worked there ever left calmly, but there was something different about Fernanda, something broken, as if she had heard a truth she could never forget.
Marcos waited for her in the vestibule with a loosened tie, unshaven stubble, and a cold fury he used to cover the panic rotting behind his sternum.
He was not a man accustomed to losing control, especially not in front of employees, tears, or children, because he had built his entire life on the idea that he could control everything.
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