Chapter 2 - THE DEAD MAN’S SAFE
The drive back to the Gold Coast felt like navigating a suffocating tunnel. My hands gripped the leather steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. Alejandro’s text glared from my phone screen, the bright pixels burning into my peripheral vision. Where are you? For seven years, I had interpreted his constant check-ins as devotion. A man who had rescued me from the wreckage of a humiliating divorce, building a fortress of luxury and stability around me. Now, the fortress felt like a cage, and the architect looked like a warden.
I pulled into the circular driveway of our estate. The manicured hedges and towering stone columns suddenly looked sinister, monuments to a life built on an unimaginable lie. I took a deep breath, composing my face into the mask of the serene, privileged wife I had played so perfectly.
Alejandro was in the foyer when I walked in. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, adjusting his cuffs. His dark eyes locked onto mine instantly, calculating and sharp. "You were gone a long time, Mariana. Lunch usually doesn't take four hours."
"The girls wanted to look at the new gallery on Michigan Avenue," I lied smoothly, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "I lost track of time."
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne made my stomach turn. "You look pale," he murmured. "Are you feeling well?"
"Just a headache from the sun," I said, stepping back just enough to break the contact without seeming evasive. "I'm going to lie down for a bit."
He watched me ascend the grand staircase, his silence heavy and oppressive. I didn't breathe normally until I heard the heavy oak door of his home office click shut downstairs.
I didn't go to our bedroom. I went straight to the east wing. My father’s study had been preserved like a museum exhibit since his fatal heart attack three years ago. The air inside was stale, smelling of old paper and leather. I locked the door behind me and knelt behind the massive mahogany desk, pulling back the Persian rug to reveal the floor safe.
Check your father’s safe.
I stared at the cold steel dial. It had been sealed for years. My brother Daniel claimed the combination was lost with our father, and we had never bothered to hire a safecracker, believing all the important estate documents were with the lawyers. Alejandro’s firm, specifically.
My hands trembled as I touched the dial. What would the code be? Birthdays? Anniversaries? I tried my mother's birthday. Nothing. My own. Nothing. I sat back, frustration mounting. Then, a memory surfaced. My father, a ruthless businessman who only showed softness on rare occasions, had once told me that his greatest triumph wasn't his company, but the day he bought his first real home. July 14, 1982.
May you like
07-14-82.
I spun the dial. The heavy internal mechanism gave a satisfying, hollow clack. The handle turned. I pulled the heavy door open, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
