—Of course, sir. I’ll take care of it.
He left her there and moved down the hall, stopping just short of the door. It remained slightly open, as if the house itself were holding its breath. Enrique stood still, listening.
His heart pounded.
“This is it,” he thought. “The moment everyone reveals who they are.”
The door opened wider.
Julia entered the room. The bed was immaculate, the furniture dark and austere. Then she saw the dresser.
The money lay there in plain sight.
She froze.
The bottle in her hand slipped and thudded softly against the floor. Enrique’s chest tightened. He imagined what came next—hands moving fast, excuses forming, morality bending under pressure.
But Julia didn’t move that way.
Slowly, carefully, she picked up the bills one by one. Not greedily. Not hurriedly. With care, as if they were fragile. She lined them up, straightened the edges, counted them under her breath—not with desire, but with responsibility.
“One hundred… two hundred… three hundred…”
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