PART 22
The ballroom waited downstairs.
One hundred and twenty guests.
Mariachi band.
Flowers.
Champagne.
Cake.
Nobody knew the groom was upstairs with police.
The coordinator kept the guests calm.
She announced.
“Brief delay due to a family emergency.”
Monica apparently smiled through it.
According to Martin.
She told guests I had become emotional because of my age.
Interesting.
Then she told one bridesmaid.
“Victor panics whenever Sofia causes drama.”
That sentence reached Martin.
Then me.
I almost admired the speed of her narrative management.
Almost.
PART 23
Police found Monica in the bridal suite.
She initially acted confused.
Then offended.
When told officers needed to speak with her, she said.
“My fiancé is wealthy.”
“This happens all the time.”
“His daughter is unstable.”
That was her first strategy.
Sofia is unstable.
Classic.
Then Detective Salcedo asked about the documents.
Monica said she had never seen them.
Second strategy.
Deny.
Then police asked about the USB.
Her face changed.
Third strategy.
Fear.
PART 24
They did not arrest her immediately.
Important.
They interviewed.
Collected information.
Spoke with hotel security.
Preserved hallway footage.
Asked for access to the bridal suite.
She refused.
They sought appropriate legal steps.
I stayed away.
That mattered.
I wanted facts.
Not a confrontation that could become another story.
PART 25
Lucas asked.
“Are we still having cake?”
I looked at him.
Then laughed for the first time that day.
“Yes.”
“We are definitely having cake.”
He smiled.
Good.
Children understand priorities better than adults sometimes.
PART 26
Rosa called from the emergency room.
Sofia had been admitted for observation.
She had a concussion.
Bruising.
Possible sedative exposure.
Blood samples taken.
The doctor wanted toxicology.
I asked.
“Can I come?”
Rosa said.
“Yes.”
I looked at police.
Then Gabriel.
Detective Salcedo nodded.
“We have what we need for now.”
I took Lucas.
Left through a private entrance.
No ballroom.
No ceremony.
No bride.
PART 27
At the hospital, Sofia looked smaller than I remembered.
Thirty-four years old.
Successful architect.
Strong.
Independent.
Yet there she was beneath a thin blanket.
Bruise along her temple.
One wrist wrapped.
Eyes tired.
Lucas ran to her.
“Mommy.”
She cried.
I did too.
I stood beside the bed.
Then said.
“I’m sorry.”
She frowned.
“For what?”
“For not believing you sooner.”
