My mother-in-law placed a bottle of sleeping pills in front of me and said, “If anything happens to Julián, you’ll be the first person everyone blames.”

At 3:00 p.m., the heavy oak front doors of the estate swung open.

Alejandro strode in first, his custom Italian suit perfectly pressed, his silver hair immaculate. Isabella followed, carrying a designer handbag and wearing a look of tragic, practiced exhaustion. Diego trailed behind them, checking a gold Rolex on his wrist.

I was sitting in the armchair beside the bed. I forced my hands to stop trembling.

“Sofia, darling,” Isabella cooed, walking over and placing a cold hand on my shoulder. “You look absolutely dreadful. Have you not been taking the medication I left you?”

“I’ve been too worried to sleep, Isabella,” I lied, keeping my eyes on Mateo.

Mateo played his part perfectly. He lay motionless, his breathing shallow, his eyes shut.

Diego walked up to the foot of the bed. He didn't look at his brother's face. He looked at the IV bag, then at Valeria.

“How is our patient, nurse?” Diego asked, a sickening smirk playing at the edge of his lips.

“He is unresponsive, sir,” Valeria said, her voice shaking just enough to sound authentic. “His vitals are deteriorating.”

Alejandro sighed—a heavy, theatrical sigh meant for an audience of none. “It is a tragedy. A father should never have to watch his son fade away. Sofia, go to the kitchen. Have the staff prepare an early dinner. We must keep our strength up for the difficult hours ahead.”

They wanted me out of the room. They wanted to inspect the red binder.