Over the next few days, I observed him carefully. Every conversation, every sigh, every complaint was a piece of the puzzle. Álvaro believed he still controlled the narrative, but I was playing a different game. I didn’t need to confront him—not yet. I needed him to reveal everything himself.
At breakfast, he complained about invoices. “Jimena, the suppliers are on my back again. We might have to sell equipment just to cover payroll.”
I nodded sympathetically, pretending to worry. Inside, I was calculating. I had already moved the winnings into a trust under my mother’s name, inaccessible to him, and started arranging meetings with financial advisors and legal counsel. Every move I made ensured he could never manipulate the money—or me—again.
He didn’t know that the quiet woman he thought he could intimidate was watching, waiting, and learning. Every subtle hint I dropped about potential debts or lost clients was designed to draw him out, make him overextend, make him panic.
