Chapter 2 - The Recital of Lies
The Teatro Degollado in Guadalajara was magnificent. The heavy red velvet curtains, the gold-leaf carvings, and the crystal chandeliers created an atmosphere of timeless elegance. Tonight, it was filled with the elite of Jalisco—wealthy families, politicians, and patrons of the arts.
Don Armando was in his element. Every three steps, someone stopped to shake his hand, to whisper congratulations, to ask for his legal advice.
"Don Armando, a pleasure to see you!" a local judge beamed. "I hear your granddaughter is performing tonight. A prodigy, no doubt, coming from your bloodline."
"She is dedicated," Armando replied smoothly, his hand resting on Renata’s shoulder.
Diego watched the old man's hand. He saw the way Armando’s fingers dug just a little too deeply into the soft flesh near Renata’s collarbone—a silent, physical reminder of who owned her. Renata didn't flinch, but her face was completely pale, her eyes fixed on the floor.
"Diego, what is wrong with you?" Karla whispered, nudging his elbow. "You look like you're going to a funeral. Smile. People are watching."
Diego looked down at his wife. "I am smiling, Karla."
"You're grimacing," she muttered, her eyes darting around the lobby, ensuring her social standing remained unblemished. "Go get us some champagne. And make sure you thank your father for sponsoring the VIP reception."
Diego nodded slowly. "I'll get the drinks."
He walked toward the bar, but his mind was spinning. He needed to get Renata away from them, but how? Armando's security detail was parked outside. The gated community they lived in was secure, but Armando had the master codes. If Diego took her to a local police station, Armando’s connections would ensure the report vanished, and Renata would be returned to them under the guise of an "unstable father."
He needed federal intervention. He needed someone outside the reach of Jalisco's local political machine.
While standing in the line for drinks, Diego pulled out his phone. He looked up the contact details for Ms. Jimena, Renata’s school teacher, whom Renata had mentioned.
He found her number in the school directory on his email. He quickly sent her a text message:
Ms. Jimena, this is Diego Arriaga, Renata's father. I have the recording Renata made. I know everything. I need to get her out of the city tonight. Who can I trust?
He waited, his heart pounding.
A minute later, his phone buzzed.
Diego, thank God. I was so afraid she wouldn't tell you. Do not go to the local police. Armando controls them. There is a federal prosecutor named Sofia Mendoza. She has been quietly building a corruption case against your father for months, but she lacked physical evidence of his domestic abuses. I am sending you her private number. Go to her.
Diego saved the contact for Sofia Mendoza. He felt a spark of hope in the dark.
"Diego?"
He jumped, quickly pocketing his phone. Armando was standing right behind him, his gold-headed cane tapping softly against the polished floor.
"You seem distracted, son," Armando said, his voice low and dangerous. "Karla tells me you've been acting strangely since you came down from Renata’s room."
Diego turned to face his father, forcing his expression into one of deferential worry. "She was just very nervous, Dad. I was worried she might freeze on stage. I don't want her to embarrass you."
Armando smiled, a cold, humorless expression. He leaned in close, the scent of his expensive cologne washing over Diego. "She won't embarrass me, Diego. Because she knows what happens to children who fail to meet expectations. I taught you that lesson when you were a boy, didn't I? And look how well you turned out. A successful businessman, a beautiful wife, a perfect life. You owe everything to my discipline."
Diego had to use every ounce of his willpower not to strike the old man’s face. The memories of his own childhood—the "accidents" he had suffered, the cold silences, the sudden, violent punishments he had normalized as "tough love"—suddenly flooded his mind.
He had been blind. He had let the cycle continue.
May you like
"Yes, Dad," Diego whispered, his jaw clenched. "I owe you everything."
"Good," Armando patted his cheek, a gesture that felt like a slap. "The performance is about to begin. Let's take our seats."
