Disclaimer: This chapter contains intense psychological manipulation and depicts the aftermath of a suicide. The story deals with themes of grief, gaslighting, and emotional abuse. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
THIRD PERSON..............
The quick scratch of the pen was still echoing in the room when a new sound came from the doorway.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Sofia and Miguel, who were already gathering their things to make a swift exit, froze. Tia Rosa looked up, confused.
Standing in the open doorway was Leo. His clothes were rumpled, a fresh scratch on his forearm, and his glasses were slightly askew.
But his eyes were sharp and clear, locked onto Sofia. In his hand, he held a simple, green notebook.
"Am I disturbing something?" Leo asked, his voice dangerously calm.
Sofia's mask of sweet concern slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing pure panic. She quickly plastered on a tight smile. "Leo! What a surprise. We were just finishing up. If you'll excuse us."
She tried to brush past him, but he didn't move an inch. He was a wall of quiet intensity.
"Not so fast, Sofia," he said, his gaze dropping to the notebook in his hand and then back to her. "I have a question. About this."
He held up the diary.
Sofia's eyes widened in perfectly feigned innocence. "I have no idea what that is. Now, please, move."
"I found it," Leo stated, not budging. "In a cabin owned by your dead mother. It's my mother's diary, Sofia. Her private thoughts. I want to know how you got it. I want to know why you had it."
The air in the room went cold. Miguel shifted uncomfortably. Tia Rosa looked between them, a new, sickening worry cutting through her relief.
Sofia drew herself up, her eyes flashing with a brilliant, manipulative fire. She didn't answer his question. She attacked.
"How dare you?" she hissed, her voice dripping with offended dignity. "You were going through my mother's things? That is breaking and entering! That is a crime! I knew you Fernandez boys were criminals, but I didn't think even you would sink so low. To rob a dead woman's home? How very... undignified of you, Leo."
She used his own intellect and pride against him, trying to make him feel ashamed and defensive.
His composure cracked for just a second. "That's... that's not what I was—" he stammered, thrown off by her sharp accusation.
He was a master of logic and data, not verbal sparring and emotional manipulation.
But Sofia didn't give him a chance to recover. Seeing his momentary confusion, she pushed past him, her shoulder knocking hard against his.
"Stay away from me, and stay away from my family's property," she snapped, her voice cold and final.
Miguel followed quickly, not making eye contact. In seconds, they were out the door and down the hall, the sound of their hurried footsteps fading.
Leo stood frozen in the doorway, the confrontation over as quickly as it had begun. He heard a car engine roar to life outside and tires screech as they sped away.
The sudden silence in the apartment was broken by a soft rustle.
Juliet, stirred by the noise, had woken up. The cheerful Cocomelon had ended, leaving a boring blue screen.
She blinked her big, sleepy eyes and clumsily toddled off the couch, her little feet carrying her unsteadily around the room, touching the table, the chair legs, exploring her world.
She spotted a cardboard box near Tia Rosa's chair. With a wobbly toddle, she made her way over. Her tiny hand dove inside and came out with a roll of tape.
Thud. She threw it on the floor.
She grabbed a handful of pens next.
Clatter! They scattered everywhere.
But the fun was already fading. A confused whimper escaped her lips. The tears were coming.
Then, she saw him. The tall, familiar shape in the doorway.
Her tears vanished. A sunny, gummy smile broke out on her face.
"O!" she shouted, her voice full of love.
She waddled to him as fast as her little legs could carry her, arms stretched high above her head in the universal baby demand: Up. Now.
Leo's heart, which had been a knot of cold fury moments before, unclenched. He bent down without a second thought, scooping her up into his arms .She immediately snuggled into his neck, her small body going limp with relief.
But the cuddle only lasted a second.
Her eyes locked onto her favorite thing in the whole world: his glasses.
"Gah-gah! Mime!" she babbled, her little fingers making a quick, expert grab for them.
Leo, used to this attack, dodged just in time. "No, Jules. Not my primary sensory inputs,"
She giggled, not deterred. " P'ease, O? P'ease?"
She babbled a long, serious sentence in her own baby language, pointing at the glasses as if explaining a very important secret.
Tia Rosa watched, her heart cracking. She saw the pure trust in Juliet's eyes, the way she calmed instantly in her brother's arms. This wasn't a dangerous criminal. This was just... Leo.
She finally found her voice, her brow furrowed in deep confusion. "What... what was that? Why did she run like that? Like a criminal?" she asked, her voice trembling. "She was just here, helping..."
Leo adjusted his hold on Juliet, who was now intently trying to grab his glasses again. He looked at his aunt, his expression grim. "Because they are, Tia. Sofia is a liar."
"What are you talking about?"
"She's been hiding things. Lying to you," Leo explained, his voice clinical, laying out the facts. "She told you our mother was a whistleblower, that she was gathering evidence. That was a lie."
He held up the green notebook. "According to this, our mother wasn't trying to take down an empire. She was just a scared woman who wanted to escape our father. She just wanted to run. Sofia twisted the truth to manipulate you."
As he spoke, Juliet, content in his arms, reached up with a chubby hand, babbling intently."Baba-boo!"
She gently patted his cheeks placing an adorable baby kiss, making his cheeks turn unintentionally pink.
Tia Rosa stared, the pieces crashing together in her mind: Sofia's hurried exit, Leo's fierce intensity, the diary, the legal papers she'd just signed without reading. The relief she'd felt moments before curdled into a sickening dread.
She had let the wolf into the henhouse, and it had taken everything.
POV SOFIA
The car sped into the night, but my mind was already miles ahead, constructing a cage of delicate, invisible wires around the man chattering beside me.
Miguel was still talking, his voice a grating soundtrack to my planning. "...and the first thing I'm buying is a solid gold watch. Something tasteless and heavy. Just because I can."
"Perfect," I murmured, my voice a soft, approving hum. "You deserve to celebrate, Miguel. You've earned it."
His chest puffed out. He was so pathetically easy to manipulate.
The plan began the very next day. "The 'He's Always Been Unstable' Play," was already in motion.
It wasn't about a quick kill; it was about a slow, meticulous unraveling. I needed to erode his sanity brick by brick, until the world, and Miguel himself, believed he was capable of jumping off a ledge.
Phase One: The Foundation of Doubt.
It began with small, inexplicable things.
I had a associate, a ghost in the machine, cancel his standing Tuesday lunch reservation at his favorite club.
When he showed up, flustered and insisting he had a reservation, the host had no record of it. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rodríguez, it seems you may have forgotten to confirm."
Later, the time on his personal laptop was mysteriously set back three hours, making him miss a conference call. He blamed a software glitch, but a tiny seed of confusion was planted.
Phase Two: The Isolation.
I became his sole confidante. "Your other partners, they're just jealous, Miguel," I'd whisper over dinner, pouring him an expensive wine I knew he couldn't taste. "They see your success and they want to tear you down. It's better to keep your distance."
He started canceling on his old friends, his family. He became paranoid, seeing slights in every sideways glance. He was building his own prison, and I was simply handing him the bricks.
Phase Three: The Crescendo.
The finale was a party at my new penthouse, a week later. I made sure it was loud, overwhelming.
I slipped a mild, fast-acting hallucinogen into his third drink. The world began to warp at the edges for him. Lights became too bright, laughter sounded like screeching.
I found him on the balcony, gripping the railing, his knuckles white. He was sweating, his eyes wide and unfocused.
"They're here," he whispered, his voice ragged.
"Who, Miguel?" I asked, my voice the picture of gentle concern as I stepped behind him.
"The... the Fernandez boys. I saw Riven. In the crowd. He was staring at me."
"Of course he was," I cooed, placing a comforting hand on his back. My touch was a lie. "They know you took their sister's fortune. They'll never stop. They're going to make it slow. They're going to hurt everyone you've ever loved."
A sob ripped from his throat. "What do I do?"
I leaned in, my lips almost touching his ear, my voice dropping to a whisper that was colder than the night air. "There's only one way out. The only way to be free. It's the only choice they can't punish."
I saw the idea take root in his poisoned, terrified mind. I saw his body go slack with a terrible, accepting relief.
I stepped back.
Then, I filled my lungs with the cool night air and I screamed. A raw, piercing sound of pure, manufactured horror.
"MIGUEL, NO!"
I stumbled back into the party, tears already streaming down my face, perfectly on cue. "He jumped!" I sobbed, collapsing into the arms of the nearest guest. "He just... he's been so stressed, so paranoid lately! He just jumped!"
The police found his apartment later. They found the "stress" in his deleted, frantic emails.
They found the notes he'd written to himself, the ones my forger had so expertly planted, full of disjointed fears about being followed.
The ruling was swift: suicide, brought on by severe psychological distress and the immense pressure of his recent, illicit financial windfall.
I stood at his funeral days later, dressed in black, the picture of a grieving, bewildered partner.
And as they lowered his casket into the ground, I allowed myself a single, silent thought.
Checkmate.