You almost laugh, but you keep your voice steady.
“You mean like the invoice you forged,” you say, and you slide forward the printed bank statement showing the payment leaving the company account and landing in “Rivas Consulting.”
Then you slide forward a travel receipt.
Two plane tickets.
His name. Her name.
The resort. The dates.
The room goes very still.
Even Javier’s breathing sounds loud now.
Don Manuel folds his hands.
“Javier,” he says, “we have already reviewed these materials.”
You watch Javier’s face change.
The arrogance drains, replaced by alarm.
“You… you reviewed them?” he whispers.
Don Manuel nods once.
“And we reviewed your performance reports, your approval chain, and your access logs,” he says.
“Your badge accessed the financial server at 2:14 a.m. three nights ago… from a login originating in the resort’s IP range.”
Javier’s eyes widen.
He looks at Sofía, and for the first time you see fear on her face too.
She was always confident because she thought you were alone.
The attorney speaks again, voice crisp.
“That indicates intent,” she says. “And it indicates that you believed you were untouchable.”
Javier swallows hard.
“You don’t understand,” he says quickly. “She’s… she’s blackmailing me. She’s unstable. She—”
You interrupt, calm as a closed door.
“No,” you say. “I’m the only stable thing in your life right now.”
You turn to Don Manuel.
“Ask him about the second set of books,” you say.
Javier’s face twitches.
Just one twitch, but it’s enough.
The CEO looks at him steadily.
“What second set, Javier?” he asks.
Javier laughs, too loud, too fast.
“There is no—”
You slide the final document forward.
A screenshot of an internal ledger, one you took weeks ago when you noticed an odd email chain that included you as an “FYI.”
A duplicate vendor list with inflated amounts, a hidden column of “rebates,” and initials: JR.
Sofía steps forward suddenly, voice sharp.
“Stop,” she says. “You can’t—”
One of the lawyers raises a hand without looking at her.
“Ms. Rivas,” she says coolly, “remain silent unless addressed.”
Sofía freezes.
For the first time, she looks like a person who’s used to being treated as powerful… and just realized she’s disposable.
Javier’s shoulders slump slightly.
He’s cornered.
So he tries the oldest trick: he turns the knife toward your heart.
“You’re doing this because you’re mad,” he spits.
“You’re grieving and you need someone to blame. The baby—”
The word “baby” sounds wrong in his mouth, like he’s trying on humanity as a costume.
Your chest tightens, but you keep your face still.
“The baby,” you repeat softly, “is not your shield.”
Your voice turns colder.
“He was a week old,” you say. “And you hated him enough to abandon his funeral.”
“So don’t pretend you get to use him now as a reason to call me emotional.”
