Chapter 3 - THE BITTER TRUTH OF NINE MONTHS AGOThe sterile lights of the operating room blurred into streaks of blinding white as Dr. Mendoza shouted over the rhythmic, frantic beeping of the heart monitor.
"We're losing her blood pressure! Hemorrhage is uncontrolled! Prep the second unit of O-negative now!"
On the other side of the glass wall, Alejandro slammed his fist against the reinforced glass so hard the frame shuddered. "Save her!" he roared, though the glass muffled his voice into a pathetic thud. "Do you hear me? Save them both!"
Mateo stepped closer, his hand resting cautiously on Alejandro’s shoulder. "Boss, you need to sit down. You're losing control."
"Control?" Alejandro laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that held no humor. "Mateo, my entire life has been a carefully constructed lie. Every single thing I built, every merger, every victory—it was all a stage set by a ghost."
He closed his eyes, and the memories of nine months ago rushed back with agonizing clarity. It had been their second wedding anniversary. They had hosted a gala at the sprawling Villarreal estate in San Pedro Garza García—the most exclusive enclave in Mexico. Camila had stood beside him in a breathtaking emerald gown, smiling for the cameras, looking like royalty.
Later that night, locked inside his private study, everything changed.
Camila had walked in white as a sheet, clutching a Manila folder to her chest. She hadn't cried. She had looked at him with a terrifying, stoic resolve that he had mistaken for cold ambition at the time.
"I want a divorce, Alejandro," she had said, her voice completely flat.
"What are you talking about?" he had laughed, pouring a glass of whiskey. "Is this a joke? It's our anniversary."
"I'm not joking. I'm leaving with a Spanish investor—a man named Emilio Delgado. He can offer me the world, security, and a life outside this prison of a family. And don't bother looking for me. I'm signing away every claim to your wealth. I just want out."
She had dropped the ring onto his mahogany desk, turned on her heel, and walked out of his life forever. He hadn't chased her because his pride—the legendary Villarreal pride—had shattered into a million pieces. He had let her go, letting bitterness and vengeance harden his heart into stone.
And now, watching her fight for her life on an operating table while eight months pregnant with his child, the mathematical impossibility of her timeline hit him with stunning clarity.
Nine months ago. If she left nine months ago, and she was eight months pregnant right now...
She was already pregnant the night she walked out.
She hadn't left for a Spanish investor. She hadn't left for money. She had left because the moment she discovered she was carrying his child, someone had put a gun to her head and given her a simple choice: Walk away, pretend to betray him with another man, and disappear into absolute poverty to save his life—or watch us slaughter your husband and your unborn baby.
"Mateo," Alejandro said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. "Find out where Emilio Delgado is right now."
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"Emilio Delgado doesn't exist, boss," Mateo replied softly. "We checked into that nine months ago when she left. The Spanish investor was a ghost identity. No passport records, no corporate filings in Madrid or Barcelona. It was a fabrication from top to bottom."
Before Alejandro could respond, the operating room doors swung open, and Dr. Mendoza walked out, peeling off his blood-stained blue gloves, his face grim and exhausted.
