And Rodrigo had no idea that my father, Arturo Salgado, was one of the founding partners of an industrial engineering company that worked with aerospace manufacturers in Querétaro.
My father drove an eleven-year-old car.
He wore discounted shirts.
He never displayed money.
And he could hire ten attorneys before breakfast if he ever needed to.
He simply believed wealth did not need an audience.
Patricia spoke again.
“You need to start immediately.”
“How?”
“Train her to ask for your permission.”
Silence.
Then Rodrigo said:
“That won’t be difficult.”
Tears filled my eyes.
But I didn’t cry.
I couldn’t risk making a sound.
My phone was still recording.
Patricia stood.
Before leaving, she gave him one last piece of advice.
“Don’t be too affectionate tonight. Confused women are easier to control.”
The door closed.
I remained beneath the bed for almost two full minutes.
Then I crawled out.
Dust covered the bottom of my dress.
My veil had torn.
And I was no longer the same woman who had hidden under that bed laughing.
I checked my phone.
The recording was intact.
Sixteen minutes and forty-one seconds.
I called my father.
He answered almost immediately.
“Mariana? What happened?”
