What he didn’t know was that Carmen had begun to suspect the truth—and its revelation would bring consequences neither imagined.
Carmen was no fool. With a philology degree, four languages, and a keen instinct, she noticed details others missed. Some parts of the “accident” didn’t add up.
Alejandro was too fit for someone with a severe spinal injury; his legs showed no atrophy. His reflexes were intact—he’d instinctively move his feet away from danger as she cleaned. She had seen his toes wiggle in sleep. The clincher came when she found medical records left on his desk.
Having learned medical terminology while caring for her sister, she saw the reports were oddly generic—as if written by someone outside spinal trauma.
On the seventh night, Carmen made a choice. She waited until Alejandro slept, then went to his study.
She knew the combination to the safe hidden behind the Velázquez—her mother’s birth date. What she found took her breath away: a contract with Dr. Herrera for “unconventional medical consulting,” emails about “convincing staging” and “behavioral testing,”
receipts for the wheelchair and sham medical equipment. Trembling, she sat with the papers in hand, her world collapsing. Everything was fake—the accident, the paralysis, her anguish. Alejandro had choreographed it to test Isabela. She was collateral damage, an unwitting player in a cruel experiment.
