Chapter 11 - The Price of SilenceFor the first time, I understood why my company had become the target. The €186,000 transfer wasn't merely a patch for Mercedes's debts. It would have funded payments meant to bury old evidence, cover new financing, and keep Javier's glossy life intact.

The plan still had holes. Lucía reminded me that motives were not proof and that the old warehouse allegations had to be separated from the present fraud inquiry. She arranged for the relevant documents and witness information to be submitted through proper channels.

Meanwhile, I had to save my business.

Our biggest client, the owner of a small chain of boutique hotels, asked for an emergency meeting. “We heard there's a cash problem,” he said. “Should we find another design firm?”

I sat across from him with two neat folders. One held signed project milestones. The other held bank confirmation that our operating account remained intact, though certain permissions were temporarily restricted for review.

“We had an attempted unauthorized transaction,” I said. “It was stopped. Your deposits remain accounted for, and our vendors are being paid on schedule. I can provide weekly updates until this is resolved.”

He studied me. “You could have hidden this.”

“I've learned how expensive hiding things gets.”

He kept the contract.

Back at the office, my team waited in the conference room. I told them the parts I could responsibly share: we were correcting access controls, cooperating with legal advisers, and continuing normal work. I didn't make them sit through the story of the wine.

Then Daniel asked, “What if the press gets hold of it?”

The question landed like a dropped plate.

That afternoon, a gossip account posted a blurry photograph of me at the restaurant, red wine staining my face. The caption said: Designer melts down over family dinner bill.

Inés found the post before I did. By evening it had thousands of views. A client asked whether I'd been intoxicated. Another sent a sad-face emoji, which somehow felt worse.

I put down my phone and stared at the office wall. Javier had attacked me in front of strangers; now someone was selling the moment as my disgrace.

Then an anonymous email arrived with an unblurred photograph taken from Mercedes's side of the table.

The subject line read: Want the rest of the video?

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