“He threw her out into the street while she was pregnant, believing she had been unfaithful: 10 years later, a red light showed him 4 pairs of eyes identical to his own and he discovered the truth that brought him to his knees.”

Under pressure, the doctor had confessed.

“He wasn’t sterile, Mr. Del Valle. He had a low sperm count, difficult, but not impossible. It was a medical ‘miracle,’ as they say. But his mother… Doña Eleonora… she insisted. She said Victoria was a gold digger, that she wasn’t of our class. I was paid to falsify the report of absolute sterility. I was paid to convince him that those babies couldn’t be his.”

Mauricio threw the glass against the wall. The crash was satisfying, but useless.

His mother. His own mother, who had died two years earlier taking the secret to her grave, had orchestrated the destruction of his family out of pure classism. And he, in his arrogance, in his blindness as a wounded man, hadn’t doubted for a second the woman he loved.

He slumped into the leather armchair, covering his face with his hands. Hot, unfamiliar tears began to flow. He had condemned his own daughters to poverty. He had let the woman he loved rot in a cell for trying to feed his own flesh and blood.

He jumped up. The pain transformed into something more useful: fury. And determination.

“Roberto,” he called over the intercom. “Get the car ready. We’re going to the jail. And call the best criminal defense team in the city. I want them there in an hour.”

The visit to Santa Martha was a descent into hell. The smell of dampness, the clanking of the bars, the despair in their eyes. When they finally brought Victoria into the visiting room, Mauricio barely recognized her.
She was thin, pale. Her hands, once soft and well-cared for, were rough from working in the prison laundry. She wore a worn beige uniform. But when she looked up and saw him, her eyes still held that indomitable fire.