Chapter 8 - The Fall of the Ortega Dynasty
Within forty-eight hours of my briefing in the Horizonte Capital boardroom, the corporate collapse of Ortega & Sons Supplies transitioned from a private financial crisis into a massive, highly publicized public scandal.
Federal investigators, acting on the ironclad forensic audit files provided by my legal team, raided the company’s main corporate offices early Thursday morning.
Television news crews swarmed the parking lot, capturing live footage of federal agents carrying out boxes of financial records, hard drives, and fraudulent tax documents.
Don Ortega was arrested on charges of corporate fraud, asset inflation, and commercial bribery before noon, hauled away in handcuffs while flashbulbs blinded him from every angle.
Mauricio, left completely unshielded and utterly incapacitated by panic, locked himself inside the family’s suburban mansion, refusing to answer the door or look at his phone as reporters crowded the front gates shouting questions.
Sitting in the quiet luxury of my penthouse office overlooking the city, I watched the live news broadcast on my wall-mounted screen while sipping my morning espresso.
Jonathan Vance stepped into the room quietly, placing a fresh leather-bound folder on my desk.
“Madam Chair, the federal indictment has been officially accepted by the district attorney. The Ortega family business assets have been officially absorbed into Horizonte Capital’s distressed liquidation portfolio for pennies on the dollar.”
“And the residential property?” I asked without taking my eyes off the television screen, where a reporter was standing directly in front of the Ortega family gates.
“Foreclosure proceedings are locked in. The auction for the suburban estate is scheduled for next Tuesday. Current occupants have been issued a formal seventy-two-hour vacate notice.”
I nodded slowly, closing the espresso cup lid.
“Good. Make sure the relocation notices are delivered personally. I want zero legal loopholes for them to delay the process.”
“Understood, Madam Chair. Also, there’s been a development regarding Mauricio Ortega personally.”
I finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? What kind of development?”
“He’s attempted to contact our legal department three times this morning, claiming he wants to negotiate a personal settlement, apologize directly, and beg for your forgiveness.”
A cold, dismissive smile touched my lips.
“Tell legal that any communication from Mauricio Ortega is to be forwarded straight to the automated spam filter. He had his chance to apologize on our wedding night. Instead, he chose to swing his fist.”
“Consider it done,” Jonathan replied respectfully, turning to leave the office.
Just as he reached the door, my personal phone buzzed on the desk.
It wasn’t an encrypted corporate line. It was an incoming call from an unknown, restricted number originating from a local public payphone.
I looked at the screen for a moment before pressing the speakerphone button.
“Vale?” a broken, trembling voice sobbed through the line.
It was Mauricio.
He sounded desperate, exhausted, and utterly defeated, stripped of all the arrogant bravado he had worn on our wedding night.
“Vale, please... I’m begging you. My dad is in jail, the police have seized everything, they’re kicking us out of the house, and I have nowhere to go. Please... drop the lawsuits. Take back the company, take back the house, take back everything! Just... just give me another chance. We were husband and wife...”
I listened to his pathetic plea with absolute emotional detachment, feeling neither anger nor pity—only the profound, cleansing peace of total closure.
“Mauricio,” I said softly, my voice calm and steady. “You told me on our wedding night that a wife’s job is to serve the men in the house and wash their dirty underwear.”
There was a suffocating silence on the other end of the line.
“Well, Mauricio,” I continued smoothly, “you’re a grown man now. It’s time you learned how to do your own laundry.”
I reached out and tapped the red disconnect button, cutting him off permanently.
I picked up my coffee, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, and watched the traffic flow smoothly far below me in the bustling streets of the city.
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The nightmare of the Ortega family was officially over.
My real life—powerful, unyielding, and entirely on my own terms—was just beginning.
