Everyone believed the millionaire’s wife was caring for his sick mother.

I held the phone in my hand like a weapon.

The recording was there.

Clear as day.

But how to get Santiago to listen to it?

Camila was always around. Always watching. Always between him and anyone who might tell him the truth.

I needed to be careful.

Very careful.

That afternoon, I saw my chance.

Santiago came home early. He was on the phone, arguing with someone about a business deal. He walked into his study and slammed the door.

Camila was upstairs, taking a nap.

This was it.

My heart pounding, I walked to the study door and knocked softly.

"Come in," he called, sounding distracted.

I entered.

He was sitting at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. His tie was loose. He looked exhausted.

"Mariana?" he said, surprised. "What is it?"

I closed the door behind me.

"Señor Aranda," I said, my voice trembling. "I need to speak with you. About your mother."

He sighed.

"Mariana, I know you're fond of her. But we've discussed this. The residence is the best place—"

"Señor, please." I pulled out my phone. "Just listen to this. Please."

I pressed play.

Camila's voice filled the room.

"She's almost gone. Three more days and the old bat will be out of my hair permanently. Santa Aurelia, can you believe it? Perfect place. No one visits. No one asks questions."

Santiago froze.

His face went pale.

"Santiago? Oh, he eats it up. He feels so guilty about working all the time that he'll agree to anything I say. I told him she has advanced dementia. He didn't even question it."

Santiago stood up slowly, his hands gripping the edge of his desk.

"The best part? Once she's in there, I get full access to her accounts. Her husband left her quite a bit of money, you know. And Santiago is so generous. This house will finally be mine. All mine."

The recording ended.

Silence filled the room.

Santiago looked at me.

His eyes were wide. Disbelieving.

"Where did you get this?" he whispered.

"I recorded it this morning, señor. She was talking on the phone in the garden. She didn't know I was listening."

He sank back into his chair.

"Camila," he said, as if he couldn't believe the name. "My wife."

"There's more, señor." I played the other recording—Doña Consuelo's voice, telling her story.

Santiago listened, his face growing darker with every word.

When it ended, he was breathing hard.

"She's been starving her," I said quietly. "Hiding her letters. Locking her in her room. Making her think her own sister doesn't care about her."

Tears filled Santiago's eyes.

"My mother," he whispered. "I thought… I thought she was just getting old. That she was confused."

He looked at me, and I saw the guilt in his eyes.

"How could I have been so blind?"

"She's very good at lying, señor," I said. "And you've been so busy. She knew you wouldn't have time to see the truth."

He stood up, his face hard with determination.

"I'm going to talk to her right now."

"Señor, wait—"

But he was already out the door.

I followed him, my heart racing.

He ran up the stairs to Doña Consuelo's room.

The door was locked.

Santiago banged on it.

"Mother! Mother, open the door!"

A moment later, we heard the sound of a key turning from inside.

Doña Consuelo opened the door, looking frightened.

When she saw her son, her face crumpled.

"Santi?"

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

"I'm here, Mama," he said, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

She cried into his shoulder, her thin body shaking.

I stood in the hallway, watching, tears streaming down my own face.

Then I heard footsteps.

Camila.

She stood at the end of the hallway, her face pale.

She'd heard everything.

"What is going on here?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Santiago released his mother and turned to face his wife.

His eyes were cold.

"We need to talk," he said.

Camila looked from him to Doña Consuelo to me.

And in that moment, I saw it in her eyes.

She knew.

The game was up.

But Camila Aranda was not a woman who went down without a fight.

She composed herself quickly, putting on that familiar sweet smile.

"Santiago, you're upset," she said, walking toward him. "I can see that. Did Mariana put these foolish ideas in your head? You know how she is—always imagining things. Let's go downstairs and talk about this calmly."

She reached for his arm.

Santiago pulled away.

"Don't touch me," he said, his voice like ice.

Camila's smile faltered.

"Santiago—"

"I heard you, Camila," he said. "On the phone. Talking about my mother. About the money. About how you've been lying to me."

Camila's face went white.

Then she looked at me.

And the hatred in her eyes was terrifying.

"You," she whispered. "You little spy."

She lunged toward me.

Santiago caught her arm, holding her back.

"Enough," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You will not touch her. You will not touch anyone in this house ever again."

Camila struggled against him, tears of rage in her eyes.

"You don't understand!" she screamed. "She was destroying us! Your mother—she hated me from the beginning! She was always there, always judging, always in the way! I did this for us, Santiago! For our future!"

"Our future?" Santiago shook his head. "There is no future. Not with you."

He pulled his phone from his pocket.

"I'm calling the police," he said.

Camila went still.

The police.

The word hung in the air.

And then Camila did something I didn't expect.

She collapsed.

Not dramatically. Not like an act.

She just went limp in Santiago's arms, her eyes rolling back in her head.

"Camila?" Santiago said, surprised.

He lowered her to the floor.

She didn't move.

For a moment, we all just stood there, shocked.

Then Doña Consuelo spoke, her voice small but clear.

"She's faking," she said.

And sure enough, a moment later, Camila's eyes fluttered open.

She looked up at Santiago, tears streaming down her face.

"Santiago, please," she whispered. "Don't do this. I'm your wife. I love you. I was just… I was so afraid of losing you. Your mother… she was going to turn you against me. I panicked. That's all."

She reached for his hand.

Santiago pulled away.

"You tried to destroy my mother," he said, his voice cold. "You starved her. You isolated her. You tried to lock her away and steal her money. That's not panic. That's evil."

He stood up.

"The police are on their way," he said. "And then you're going to answer for everything you've done."

Camila sat up, her face twisting with rage.

"You'll regret this," she spat. "Both of you! And you—" She pointed at me. "You think you're a hero? You're nothing! A maid! You'll pay for this!"

I stood my ground.

I wasn't afraid of her anymore.