He had begun to observe.
To listen.
To keep silent.
The first sign came three months ago, at his house in Polasco. One night, while reviewing some financial documents, he found a template for unauthorized access to the trust structure that protected his fortune. It wasn’t an external attack. It provided some kind of insider credentials.
Santiago.
She said nothing.
Instead of confronting him, he discreetly called his trusted lawyer in Monterey and activated a clause that his father had included years before: in the case of accidental death under suspicious circumstances, all the assets would be automatically frozen and transferred to an irrevocable foundation until a judicial investigation was concluded.
Furthermore, he signed a sealed document before this notary in Mexico City: if she died, Santiago would inherit his peso.
And then he did something else.
Something that would change the destiny of both of them.
As her body fell from the helicopter, the wind roared in her ears, Valeria screamed out of fear.
She screamed so that he would believe she was scared.
Beneath her light summer dress she wore an ultralight harpsichord, almost invisible under the fabric, connected to a compact automatic deployment system attached to her back. It was not a conventional parachute; it was an emergency device designed for short-range flights over water.
She had taken private lessons and kept it secret.
I had rehearsed mentally at that moment.
When it fell far enough away from the helicopter, it activated the mechanism.
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