Chapter 9 - The Ashes of Greed
The fallout was swift, brutal, and entirely public. Despite my attempts to keep the finer details private for Isabella's sake, Julian’s desperate attempts to plea bargain resulted in leaked court documents. The Spanish tabloids had a field day. “The Wicked Stepmother of Marbella,” one headline blared. “From Silk Robes to Prison Stripes,” read another.
Beatriz tried to hire a high-powered defense attorney, but quickly realized her accounts were frozen solid. She was forced to use a public defender who took one look at the ninety hours of high-definition video evidence and advised her to plead guilty to avoid a twenty-year sentence.
I sat in the back of the courtroom on the day of her sentencing. She looked entirely unrecognizable from the glamorous woman who had lounged on my terrace sipping cocktails. Her hair was limp and graying at the roots, her skin pale, the arrogance completely beaten out of her by months in a holding cell.
When the judge read the sentence—eight years in a medium-security facility for the financial crimes, and an additional five for the child abuse, to be served consecutively—she didn't even cry. She just stared blankly ahead, a hollow shell of the woman who thought she could outsmart me. Julian received ten years, his career and reputation permanently incinerated.
Outside the courthouse, reporters swarmed me, shouting questions about my wealth, my ex-wife, my future. I ignored them all, flanked by my security detail, and stepped into my waiting car.
“Where to, sir?” my driver asked.
“Home,” I said. “Take me home.”
When I arrived at the villa, the transformation was complete. I had hired a crew to completely remodel the sections of the house Beatriz had touched. The dark, imposing modern furniture she loved was gone, replaced by warm woods, bright colors, and comfortable fabrics.
But the biggest change was Isabella's room.
I walked upstairs and peeked through the cracked door. The room was a vibrant wonderland again. Bookshelves overflowed with stories, art supplies were scattered across a newly built craft table, and a brand new, magnificent dollhouse sat in the corner.
Isabella was sitting on the floor, deeply engaged in a tea party with her stuffed animals. Maria, the housekeeper, was sitting on a small chair nearby, smiling warmly as she poured invisible tea into a plastic cup.
My heart swelled. The haunted, terrified look in Isabella's eyes from that day in the garden had faded, replaced by the bright, imaginative spark of a child who finally felt safe.
I knocked softly on the doorframe. Isabella looked up, her face breaking into a massive, radiant smile.
“Papa!” she yelled, scrambling up from the floor and running toward me.
I dropped to one knee and caught her in my arms, burying my face in her shoulder. She smelled of strawberries and sunshine.
“Are you done with your meetings?” she asked, pulling back to look at me.
May you like
“I am,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. I looked at her hands. The blisters were entirely healed, leaving only smooth, soft skin. “In fact, I'm done with meetings for a very long time. I promoted my vice president today. I'm taking a year off.”
Isabella’s eyes went wide. “A whole year? What are we going to do for a whole year?”
