By the next day, everything was arranged.
Herrera prepared fake medical documents, briefed trusted nurses, and had credible medical equipment installed at the mansion. Alejandro called Isabela—then in Barcelona for a photo shoot—and described a horrific accident that had left him paralyzed.
Her reaction matched expectations: shock, disbelief, promises to return at once. Yet Alejandro, adept at reading people, noticed the pause before her comforting words—a hesitation that chilled him. When she reached the mansion that night, he was already seated in the wheelchair, waiting for the truth.
The sound of the Maserati on the gravel sent his pulse racing more than any multimillion-euro deal. As the click of heels neared the door, he didn’t know the real surprise would come not from Isabela but from someone else under the same roof—someone he’d barely seen.
Isabela swept in like a star on a red carpet. Despite the drama, her Louboutin heels clicked across the marble as she approached him. She wore a flame-red suit, hair perfectly set despite the rushed trip, makeup flawless.
A truly worried woman wouldn’t have prepared herself like a model on set. She threw herself at his feet with theatrical flair, careful not to crease the outfit. When he explained the doctors were forecasting months or years of recovery—with a chance he might never fully heal—he caught a fleeting shadow in her eyes, a flash of disappointment so quick it was almost invisible.
