You talk to a lawyer about the invoice.
He barely finishes reading before he snorts. “This won’t hold up. It’s intimidation.”
“What about my car?” you ask, because that’s the part that still makes your stomach twist.
He lifts his eyebrows. “Did you sign a transfer?”
“No.”
“Then they have a problem,” he says. “A big one.”
On day three, you get a call from a number you don’t recognize.
You answer only because you’re tired of being hunted by vibrations.
A man’s voice comes through, polite and professional.
“Is this Lucía Serrano?” he asks.
You frown. “Lucía… yes. But my last name is—”
He continues, as if reading. “I’m calling from Banco Iberia. There’s been an unusual request regarding an account associated with your family.”
Your blood turns cold.
“What kind of request?”
“A request to transfer a significant amount from an account that appears to be in your name,” he says. “The request was initiated by a third party.”
You grip your phone harder. “By who.”
He hesitates. “Julián Serrano.”
Your father.
You close your eyes.
Of course.
Your father didn’t throw that dinner just to humiliate you.
He threw it because he needed an audience to justify the robbery he was planning.
That invoice wasn’t a bill.
It was a story.
A story he could tell relatives so they’d say, “Well, if she owes them money, it makes sense to take it.”
You inhale slowly.
“Freeze everything,” you say. “Immediately. Add a security lock. Require my in-person verification for any transfer.”
The banker agrees.
You hang up and feel your knees go weak.
So that’s what this is.
Not punishment.
Extraction.
You don’t wait.
You go straight to the bank with your ID and your documents, and you lock down your accounts like you’re sealing a ship before a storm.
Then you go to the vehicle registration office.
You request records.
You pay a small fee and wait in a plastic chair while fluorescent lights hum like an insect.
When the clerk returns, her expression is… complicated.
“Someone filed paperwork,” she says slowly, “to transfer the vehicle to Marina Serrano.”
You swallow. “And did it go through?”
The clerk shakes her head. “Not without your signature. It’s marked ‘pending.’ Also… the signature on the submitted form doesn’t match your records.”
Forgery.
The word sits heavy in your mouth.
Your father didn’t just disown you.
He tried to steal your identity.
That’s when the calls hit the next level.
Not forty.
Not fifty.
Eighty.
Your phone becomes a small, vibrating hostage.
Your mother leaves voicemails that sound like accusations wrapped in tears.
“How could you do this to us?”
Your sister texts: “The car paperwork is messed up because you’re being dramatic.”
And then, finally, your father sends one message that makes your stomach flip.
“If you don’t answer, we’ll tell everyone what you did.”
You stare at the screen.
