“Again?” She didn’t say it aloud, but the disappointment in her voice resonated more strongly than if she had shouted.
Martina remained silent. She simply gripped her spoon and stared at her plate.
For a moment, Emiliano felt a knot in his stomach.
Guilt, perhaps.
But he ignored it.
“Just a few days,” he said.
Patricia smiled beside him, a serene and elegant smile, and took his hand under the table like the perfect wife.
Rosa stood near the kitchen entrance, silently clearing the table, her expression unreadable.
The next morning, the driver loaded Emiliano’s suitcase into the car.
His daughters hugged him at the door.
“I love you, Dad,” Martina whispered.
He kissed both of their foreheads, forced a smile, and got into the car.
As the car drove away, he glanced back once through the tinted window.
The girls stood on the doorstep watching him leave.
Behind them, inside the house, Rosa held a breakfast tray and lowered her gaze respectfully when she noticed him watching her.
It was the scene of an ordinary goodbye.
A father leaving.
A family settling into routine.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except that everything was arranged.
Thirty minutes later, Emiliano had returned.
He entered through a service entrance at the back of the mansion, while the staff believed he was already halfway to the airport.
No footsteps.
No words. Without warning.
His head of security led him down a private corridor to a locked monitoring room, rarely used except for system checks and high-level security reviews.
Inside, a wall of screens illuminated the darkness.
The kitchen.
The foyer.
The formal living room.
The upstairs hallway.
