The marble of the grand staircase in our Lomas de Chapultepec estate was notoriously slick

The heavy oak door swung open with a muffled creak.

I stood motionless, my chin tilted slightly upward, letting my eyes glaze over into that dull, unmoored look that had defined me for seven years. In my peripheral vision, every detail of Mauricio’s face became instantly razor-sharp. He wore an ivory cashmere sweater, impeccably tailored, but his posture was coiled like a spring.

In his right hand, he held a small glass of cloudy water and two pale yellow pills.

"Sofía," he sighed, the sigh of a long-suffering saint dealing with an unruly invalid. "Why did you lock the door? You know you aren't supposed to isolate yourself after an episode. The doctor said your panic attacks can trigger another neurological collapse."

"I was bleeding, Mauricio," I whispered, keeping my voice trembling and thin. "I didn't want Mateo to see my blood. I didn't want him to be frightened."

Mauricio’s shoulders dropped slightly. The tension in his brow relaxed. He thought I was still his pathetic, self-blaming creature. He stepped inside, reaching out with his free hand to cup my cheek.

Seeing his hand approach was an exercise in pure horror. His skin was warm, smooth, and smelled faintly of expensive sandalwood and the floral citrus perfume that Valeria always wore. My instinct was to recoil, to bite his hand until I tasted bone, but I forced my muscles to remain completely slack. I even leaned into his palm slightly, mimicking the desperate affection I had given him for years.

"Good girl," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the cut near my temple. "The fall gave you a nasty contusion. These are your sedatives and an anti-inflammatory. Take them, and then get into bed. Valeria is making dinner."

"Let me come down for dinner," I murmured softly. "Please. I feel so cold up here alone. I promise I won't upset Mateo. I just want to hear the family."

Mauricio hesitated. In the mirror behind him, I saw his eyes dart to the pills in his hand. He was calculating. If I stayed in bed, he would have to check on me; if I sat at the table like a blind ornament, he could monitor me while keeping up appearances for the household staff.

"Fine," he said, setting the pills on the nightstand. "Drink the water first."

I reached out blindly, my hand patting the air until my fingers brushed the glass. I brought it to my lips, tilted my head, and took a large gulp—holding the liquid in the pouch of my cheek while pretending to swallow.

"All of it," he commanded quietly.

I brought the glass up again, pretended to drink the rest, and then turned toward the bathroom with a cough. "I need to rinse my mouth. The taste is bitter."

I turned the tap on full blast, leaned over the sink, and let the cloudy water dribble harmlessly down the drain. I splashed cold water on my face, dried my skin with a towel, and turned back to him with wide, blank eyes.

"Shall we go down?" I asked.

He offered his arm. Taking it felt like holding the skin of a serpent.

As we walked down the grand staircase, my vision drank in every single corner of the house. For seven years, I had constructed this home in my imagination through sounds: the heavy hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the third step, the chiming grandfather clock in the dining room. But seeing it with my own eyes was a grotesque shock.

The walls were hung with priceless contemporary art—pieces bearing the unmistakable signature of the Salgado private collection that had once hung in my father’s gallery. Mauricio had looted my family’s heritage and hung it on his walls like hunting trophies.

We entered the dining room.

Valeria was already seated at the head of the long mahogany table, wearing an emerald-green silk blouse that plunged low at the neckline. Beside her, Mateo was eating a bowl of strawberries with silver cutlery, swinging his legs back and forth.

When Valeria looked up and saw me walking in on Mauricio’s arm, her face shifted instantly from relaxed amusement to tight, venomous irritation.

"Mauricio," Valeria said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "I thought you were putting Sofía to bed. She took quite a spill. Dr. Vance always says she needs quiet after her... dizzy spells."

"She insisted on joining us," Mauricio said, guiding me to a chair at the midpoint of the table, isolated from everyone else. "She promises to behave."

"Behave," I echoed quietly, letting my fingers trace the edge of the linen napkin. "I always behave, Valeria."

Valeria let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. She leaned back, and my gaze caught what Mauricio did next. As he walked behind Valeria’s chair toward his seat at the opposite end of the table, his hand casually, brazenly brushed down the slope of Valeria’s bare neck, his fingers trailing over her shoulder blade before lingering at the small of her back.

Valeria didn't flinch. She tilted her head back slightly, offering him a secret, sultry smile that vanished the second she turned her eyes back toward me.

Right in front of me.

They had been doing this for six years. Touching each other, exchanging lovers' glances, passing silent intimacies across the linen table while the blind woman sat between them, eating in the dark.

A fiery rage ignited behind my ribs, so intense it nearly took my breath away. But I kept my eyes unfocused, staring blankly at the floral centerpiece between us.

"Mateo," Valeria said, her tone shifting to that of a doting mother. "Did you finish your French worksheet?"

"Yes, Mami," the boy chirped.

The word hung in the air like a poisoned dart.

*Mami.*

Mauricio cleared his throat sharply, his fork clattering against his porcelain plate. "Mateo. What did we say about that? Sofía is your mother. Valeria is your aunt."

Mateo rolled his eyes. He didn't look at me; he looked directly at Valeria, who gave him a tiny, indulgent wink.

"Sorry," Mateo muttered, devoid of any genuine remorse. "Aunt Valeria."

"It’s quite alright," Valeria purred, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. She looked at me, studying my dead eyes with cold, clinical detachment. "Children get confused by roles, especially when their biological mother is so... absent. It's difficult for a little boy to connect with someone who can’t even see his drawings."

"I love his drawings," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "I love the textures of the paper he brings me."

Mateo sneered. "I don't bring you drawings. Those are scrap papers from the shredder."

Silence slammed down over the dining room table.

Mauricio didn't scold him. Valeria didn't correct him. They simply exchanged a look of shared, smug amusement. To them, my humiliation was a domestic hobby, an inside joke between two conspirators who believed their victim was utterly helpless.

"Mateo, that's enough," Mauricio said with a flat, perfunctory tone that fool no one. "Eat your dinner."

The kitchen swinging door opened, and Martha, the older housekeeper who had worked for the Alcázar family for decades, entered carrying a silver tureen of soup. Her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, and when her gaze met mine, she flinched.

She walked over to serve me. As she set the bowl down, her hand trembled violently.

Under the table, I slid my hand into my pocket and retrieved the small, clear plastic pill baggie containing the three strands of Mateo’s hair. As Martha leaned down to adjust my napkin, I reached out as if fumbling for a bread roll, brushed her rough, calloused wrist, and pressed the small packet into her apron pocket.

Martha froze. She stared down at me.

I didn't break character. I kept my eyes blank and fixed forward, but beneath the breath that escaped my lips, I whispered three words in a frequency only she could hear:

"Give it to Ernesto."

Martha’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened in sheer, paralyzing shock. She knew Ernesto Salgado. She had worked for my family twenty years ago before Mauricio brought her into this house under the guise of an Alcázar employee. She knew I had supposedly forgotten everything.

She gave the subtlest, almost imperceptible nod of her chin, quickly collected her serving tray, and retreated to the kitchen.

My father’s extraction courier was waiting at the service gate under the guise of a grocery delivery. The DNA would be in a high-security lab across town before midnight.

"Sofía?" Valeria’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a switchblade.

I turned my sightless face toward her voice. "Yes, Valeria?"

Valeria was staring at me intently, her eyes narrowed like a cat observing a mouse that had twitched in an unexpected direction. "You seem different tonight. Your posture is unusually rigid."

"My shoulder aches from the fall," I said, allowing a single tear to spill from my eye—an easy feat given the overwhelming disgust churning in my gut. "And my heart aches because my son hates me."

Mauricio sighed loudly, throwing his napkin onto the table. "For God’s sake, Sofía, stop playing the martyr! We give you everything! A roof over your head, private medical care, staff to clean up after you! Mateo doesn't hate you; you're simply exhausting to be around!"

"I'm sorry," I whispered, bowing my head. "I think I would like to go back to my room now."

"Go," Mauricio snapped. "Martha will bring you some tea later."

I rose slowly from the table, picking up my wooden cane from where it leaned against the chair. I tapped the floor deliberately, counting the steps I no longer needed to count, and navigated the doorway.

Behind me, as I cleared the dining room threshold, I heard the faint rustle of clothing.

I paused in the shadows of the corridor and glanced back through the glass reflection of a display cabinet.

Mauricio had pulled his chair directly beside Valeria’s. He had his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, and he was kissing her neck with frantic, hungry passion while Mateo sat two feet away, completely indifferent, happily munching on his dessert.

"She’s getting more pathetic by the day," Valeria whispered against Mauricio’s lips, her laughter muffled by his mouth. "How much longer do we have to keep this up, darling?"

"Not long," Mauricio whispered back, his hand sliding up her thigh. "The final transfer clears on Friday. After that, we send her to the private sanitarium in Switzerland. And the Salgado fortune belongs entirely to us."

My knuckles turned white around the grip of my cane.