Chapter 2 - THE NANNY WHO NEVER QUIT
My name is Gabriel Navarro.
For twenty years, I made money by assuming there was always another document.
Another witness.
Another version of the story somebody hoped I would never request.
That instinct had saved companies.
That afternoon, it saved me from making the mistake Beatriz expected.
I did not shout.
I did not threaten.
I called my attorney.
Then I called security.
Not the household team.
The external firm that protected my company properties.
I told them to preserve every electronic record connected to the villa.
Door logs.
Gate records.
Cameras.
Alarm history.
Cloud backups.
Beatriz stared at me.
“You’re investigating your own wife?”
“No.”
“I’m preserving information.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
She laughed.
“Isabella has you terrified after one afternoon.”
I looked at my daughter.
She was drinking water through a straw.
“No.”
“What terrifies me is how calm she is.”
Beatriz’s face tightened.
Dr. Moreno asked to speak with me privately.
I took him into the library.
He closed the door.
“Gabriel.”
“Yes?”
“I’m required to document what I saw.”
“I want you to.”
“Depending on what Isabella says, child protection authorities may need to be informed.”
“Then inform them.”
He studied me.
“You understand this could become public.”
“My company is irrelevant.”
“I’m talking about Isabella.”
“So am I.”
That answer seemed to satisfy him.
After he left, I called Marta.
Her old number was disconnected.
Rosa had an address.
A small apartment near Estepona.
I sent my driver, Luis, with one message.
Please ask Marta to call me.
Do not pressure her.
At six that evening, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
“Mr. Navarro?”
Marta’s voice.
Trembling.
“Marta.”
She began crying.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I should’ve done more.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
Silence.
Then.
“Mrs. Navarro changed after you left.”
“How?”
“She stopped letting Isabella eat with her.”
I sat down.
“She made her clean.”
“Laundry.”
“Bathrooms.”
“Kitchen floors.”
“The garden.”
“I told her it was too much.”
“What happened?”
“She said Isabella was spoiled.”
“And you called me?”
“I tried.”
My stomach turned.
“What do you mean tried?”
“She took my phone.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then she fired me.”
“No.”
Marta’s voice broke.
“She didn’t fire me.”
“She threatened me.”
“With what?”
“My residency paperwork.”
Marta was from Colombia.
She had worked legally in Spain for years.
Beatriz apparently told her she could ruin that.
“I believed her.”
Marta whispered.
“I packed and left.”
“Why did you not contact me afterward?”
“I did.”
I froze.
“When?”
“Four times.”
“I sent emails.”
“Messages to the Dubai office.”
“I even mailed a letter.”
I had received nothing.
Not one message.
I looked through the glass doors toward Beatriz.
She was standing in the garden now.
Talking quickly into her phone.
I remembered her earlier call.
Her idiot father has absolutely no idea.
Then Marta said.
“Mr. Navarro?”
“Yes?”
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Navarro told Isabella you already knew.”
My throat tightened.
“Knew what?”
“That you agreed she needed punishment.”
May you like
I stopped breathing.
For three months, my daughter had believed I knew.
