The hangover hit Mateo like a freight train at sunrise. Sunlight filtered through the velvet curtains of the luxury hotel suite, burning his eyes. Beside him, Valeria was still asleep, smelling of cheap neon cocktails and expensive perfume. Mateo groaned, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

The holding cell at the central precinct smelled of stale bleach and sweat. Mateo sat on a cold concrete bench, staring at his filthy hands. His expensive suit was torn, his hair ruined.

He had no bail options. The judge deemed him a high flight risk after Alejandro’s legal team presented evidence that Mateo had already purchased a private jet ticket to Panama earlier that week—a ticket intended for his escape once he drained Camila's estate dry.

At midnight, a guard rattled the bars. "Garza. You have a visitor."

Mateo rushed to the glass partition in the visitation room, expecting his high-priced defense lawyer. Instead, Alejandro sat on the other side of the glass.

Alejandro looked pristine, calm, and utterly in control.

"Why are you doing this to me, Alejandro?" Mateo hissed into the phone handset, his eyes bloodshot. "You stole my life! You ruined my reputation!"

"You ruined yourself, Mateo," Alejandro replied quietly through the phone. "I just stood back and let your greed light the fuse. Do you know what Camila’s first words were when she briefly woke up this evening?"

Mateo pressed his face against the glass. "What? Is she okay? Did she ask for me?"

"She opened her eyes, looked at me, and whispered: 'Is he in jail yet?'" Alejandro let out a bitter, cold chuckle. "She doesn't hate you, Mateo. Hatred requires emotion. She despises you. You are nothing to her now."

"She’s my wife! That’s my daughter!"

"She was your wife," Alejandro corrected. "The divorce papers were signed by her emergency guardian three hours ago. As for the baby... her name is Sofia. And you will never see her face, hear her voice, or hold her hand."