CHAPTER 1: THE ROOM WITHOUT CHRISTMAS
Alejandro Santillán did not shout.
That was what made the room colder.
He stood in the doorway of the dining room, rain dripping from the edge of his suit jacket, staring at the moldy bread on the plastic plate.
His four daughters watched him as if he were not their father, but a judge deciding whether they had committed a crime.
Valeria sat the straightest.
Camila kept wiping her tears with both hands.
Regina’s small fingers were wrapped tightly around Sofía’s wrist under the table.
And Sofía, the quietest of the four, was still half-hidden beneath the table, her eyes wide with terror.
Alejandro slowly lowered himself to one knee.
“My girls,” he said carefully, keeping his voice gentle, “look at me.”
None of them moved.
His chest tightened.
For six months, he had trusted Jimena.
For six months, he had believed the photographs she sent him: the girls smiling in expensive dresses, sitting beside wrapped gifts, eating at polished tables.
Now he saw the truth.
The dresses had been costumes.
The smiles had been fear.
The food had never existed.
He reached for the plate, but Valeria grabbed it first.
“We’re sorry, Daddy,” she whispered. “We weren’t supposed to make a mess.”
Alejandro froze.
A mess.
His starving child thought hunger was a mess.
Before he could speak, laughter exploded from the living room.
Jimena’s voice floated through the hallway.
“If they’re hungry, they should learn how to look pretty while suffering!”
The words landed like a knife.
Alejandro stood.
The little girls flinched.
He noticed.
That broke him more than the bread.
He turned back to them, forcing his rage down into something colder.
“No one will ever punish you for being hungry again.”
Valeria blinked, like she did not understand.
Then Camila whispered, “Can we have soup?”
Alejandro closed his eyes for half a second.
Soup.
Not toys.
Not dresses.
Not Christmas candy.
Soup.
He removed his coat and wrapped it around all four girls as best he could.
Then he walked into the hallway.
The music was still pounding.
Guests were still laughing.
Jimena was still dancing on the dining table, her diamond necklace flashing beneath the chandelier.
Alejandro stopped at the entrance of the living room.
One by one, conversations died.
Jimena turned, champagne glass in hand.
Her smile faltered.
“Alejandro?” she said. “You’re early.”
He looked at her necklace.
Then at the champagne.
Then at the strangers standing inside the house where his daughters had been starving.
“Everyone out.”
The room went silent.
Jimena laughed nervously.
“Darling, don’t be dramatic. It’s Christmas Eve.”
Alejandro’s eyes never left hers.
“I said everyone out.”
A man near the piano scoffed.
“Who does this guy think he is?”
Alejandro turned his head slightly.
“The owner of the house you’re drinking in.”
Nobody laughed after that.
Within minutes, coats were grabbed, heels clicked across marble, and expensive guests fled into the rain.
Jimena climbed down from the table slowly, her face burning with humiliation.
“You embarrassed me,” she hissed.
Alejandro stepped closer.
“No, Jimena. I just ended the performance.”
Her eyes hardened.
“You have no idea what those girls are like when you’re gone.”
Alejandro’s voice dropped.
“I know exactly what they are.”
He leaned closer.
“They are five years old.”
Jimena’s lips parted.
Before she could answer, a small voice came from behind him.
“Daddy?”
Alejandro turned.
Valeria stood in the hallway, wrapped in his oversized coat.
In her trembling hand was a folded piece of paper.
“I wasn’t supposed to show you this.”
Jimena’s face went white.
Alejandro looked from Valeria to Jimena.
Then he took the paper.
Inside was a list.
Not a child’s drawing.
Not a Christmas note.
A punishment schedule.
No breakfast if they cried.
No lunch if they asked about Daddy.
No dinner if they told the nanny.
At the bottom, written in Jimena’s elegant handwriting, were the words:
“Pretty daughters make rich fathers proud.”
Alejandro looked up.
May you like
Jimena was no longer smiling.
And for the first time that night, she looked afraid.
