CHAPTER 2 — THE DAUGHTER WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
CHAPTER 2 — THE DAUGHTER WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
The mansion had never felt so dangerous.
Not even on Clara's first day.
Not even the night she discovered Doña Leonor imprisoned beneath the estate.
Tonight was different.
Because Verónica knew.
Maybe not everything.
Maybe not yet.
But she knew enough.
And that made her unpredictable.
Clara stood in the servants' hallway, trying to steady her breathing.
Below them, hidden behind stone walls and locked doors, Leonor remained trapped.
Above them, somewhere inside the mansion, Verónica was searching for answers.
Searching for a traitor.
Searching for the person who had dared to threaten her perfect world.
And Clara knew exactly who she would blame if she found even the smallest clue.
The new maid.
The poor girl.
The disposable employee.
The easiest target.
Miguel grabbed her arm.
"We need to move."
"Where?"
"The study."
Clara frowned.
"What happened?"
Miguel looked over his shoulder before answering.
"Ricardo found a photograph."
A chill raced through her body.
"A photograph of who?"
Miguel swallowed.
"His mother."
Twenty minutes earlier...
Ricardo del Monte had arrived home unexpectedly.
His flight from Mexico City had been canceled.
Instead of spending another night abroad, he returned directly to the estate.
He wasn't supposed to be there.
Verónica had built her entire life around that assumption.
The businessman entered through the side entrance while staff rushed to prepare dinner.
No welcoming committee.
No dramatic entrance.
Just a tired man carrying a briefcase.
Then he heard shouting.
A maid crying.
Verónica furious.
The sounds drifted from the library.
Ricardo followed instinctively.
The moment he entered, silence fell.
A young servant stood trembling near the desk.
Verónica's expression changed instantly.
Too quickly.
Too perfectly.
A performance.
Ricardo noticed.
He always noticed.
"What's going on?"
Verónica smiled.
The smile Clara hated.
The smile that never reached her eyes.
"Nothing important."
The servant looked terrified.
Ricardo studied her.
Then glanced toward the desk.
Several photographs were scattered across the polished wood.
One immediately caught his attention.
His stomach dropped.
The picture showed his mother.
Not in Europe.
Not relaxing.
Not recovering.
The photograph was recent.
Very recent.
His hands began shaking.
"Where did this come from?"
The servant opened her mouth.
Verónica interrupted instantly.
"She's confused."
The maid started crying.
"No, sir."
Ricardo turned toward her.
The girl looked desperate.
Like someone terrified nobody would listen.
"I found it in the basement."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
The word echoed through the room.
Basement.
Verónica went pale.
Only for a second.
But Ricardo saw it.
And suddenly—
Something felt very wrong.
Now, sitting inside his private study, Ricardo stared at the photograph.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His mother looked older.
Frailer.
But unmistakably alive.
The image destroyed everything he believed.
For two years he had called Europe.
Spoken with doctors.
Received updates.
Letters.
Photographs.
Medical reports.
All arranged by Verónica.
All controlled by Verónica.
His chest tightened.
Could every single one have been fake?
The possibility made him physically ill.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in."
The family attorney entered.
An older man named Arturo Mendes.
Trusted.
Loyal.
Careful.
Ricardo handed him the photograph.
Arturo stared.
Then slowly lowered it.
His face turned white.
"My God."
Ricardo leaned forward.
"What aren't you telling me?"
The attorney hesitated.
A terrible sign.
"Arturo."
Silence.
Then finally:
"There were concerns."
Ricardo froze.
"What concerns?"
The attorney removed his glasses.
Several years older suddenly.
"Before she disappeared."
Ricardo's pulse accelerated.
"About what?"
Arturo looked directly into his eyes.
"Your mother believed someone was trying to isolate her."
The room became very quiet.
Ricardo felt cold.
Ice cold.
Because suddenly dozens of strange memories resurfaced.
Cancelled visits.
Missed calls.
Postponed trips.
Excuses.
Always excuses.
And always from Verónica.
Meanwhile—
Verónica was unraveling.
The moment she learned Ricardo had seen the photograph, panic exploded beneath her perfect exterior.
Years.
Years of planning.
Years of manipulation.
Years of control.
Everything now hung by a thread.
She paced furiously inside her bedroom.
Thinking.
Calculating.
Adjusting.
The way predators do when cornered.
One problem remained obvious.
The photograph.
Someone found it.
Someone entered the basement.
Someone spoke to Leonor.
The question was simple.
Who?
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she smiled.
A cold smile.
The kind that made servants quit.
The kind that made grown men uncomfortable.
Because she already knew.
Not with certainty.
But with instinct.
And her instincts were rarely wrong.
Clara.
The new maid.
The curious maid.
The maid who asked too few questions.
The maid who watched too much.
Yes.
It had to be Clara.
At midnight, Clara returned secretly to the cellar.
Leonor looked exhausted.
The old woman had barely slept.
Fear lined every feature.
"They know."
Clara nodded.
"Yes."
The elderly woman closed her eyes.
A tear escaped.
"So it begins."
Clara sat beside the gate.
For several moments neither spoke.
Then Leonor surprised her.
"How old are you?"
The question felt strange.
"Twenty-four."
The old woman smiled faintly.
"Twenty-four."
She repeated it softly.
As though remembering something.
Then she asked:
"When is your birthday?"
Clara frowned.
"August nineteenth."
Silence.
The old woman froze.
Completely froze.
Her eyes widened.
The color drained from her face.
"August nineteenth?"
Clara nodded.
"Yes."
Leonor looked like she had seen a ghost.
"That's impossible."
The words barely escaped her lips.
"What is?"
The old woman stood slowly.
Trembling.
Shaking.
Staring.
Then she whispered something that made Clara's blood run cold.
"My daughter was born on August nineteenth."
The cellar fell silent.
Neither woman moved.
Neither breathed.
Finally Clara forced a laugh.
A nervous laugh.
"There must be lots of people born that day."
Leonor didn't laugh.
She looked horrified.
Absolutely horrified.
"Your mother."
Her voice shook.
"What was her name?"
Clara hesitated.
"Isabel Jiménez."
The old woman closed her eyes.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"No."
Clara's pulse quickened.
"What?"
Leonor opened her eyes again.
Pain lived inside them.
Years of pain.
Decades.
"I knew Isabel."
The flashlight suddenly felt heavier.
The air thinner.
The room colder.
"You knew my mother?"
Leonor nodded slowly.
Then whispered:
"She worked for me."
Every hair on Clara's arms stood up.
Because coincidences don't usually feel like warnings.
And this felt very much like a warning.
Before either woman could continue—
The cellar door slammed open.
The noise exploded through the darkness.
Clara spun around.
Miguel stood there.
Breathing hard.
Pale.
Terrified.
"Run."
The word echoed off stone walls.
"What?"
Miguel rushed forward.
"Now."
Fear flashed across his face.
Real fear.
The kind impossible to fake.
"Verónica knows."
The world stopped.
"She knows what?"
"Everything."
Clara's heart dropped.
Miguel grabbed her shoulders.
"Security is searching the mansion."
The old woman gasped.
"They found the pantry key records."
Clara felt dizzy.
No.
No.
No.
Miguel continued.
"They think you opened the cellar."
Think?
No.
They knew.
Somehow they knew.
And if Verónica was involved—
That meant danger.
Real danger.
The kind people disappear over.
Leonor suddenly grabbed Clara's hand through the bars.
"Listen to me."
The old woman's voice shook violently.
"If anything happens—"
"No."
Clara immediately interrupted.
"I'm getting you out."
Leonor looked at her sadly.
The way grandmothers look at children who don't understand reality yet.
Then she whispered:
"Your mother tried to save me too."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Clara stared.
"What?"
The old woman's eyes filled with tears.
"Isabel."
Another tear escaped.
"She discovered the truth."
The flashlight nearly slipped from Clara's hand.
Because suddenly everything connected.
The fear.
The coincidence.
The birthday.
The strange reaction.
The questions.
Leonor squeezed her fingers.
"That's why she died."
The cellar seemed to tilt sideways.
"No."
The word emerged automatically.
Instinctively.
Desperately.
Leonor nodded.
Sobbing now.
"Your mother didn't die in an accident."
The world stopped.
Completely.
Everything inside Clara shattered.
Every childhood memory.
Every explanation.
Every story she ever believed.
Gone.
Just gone.
"My mother..."
Her voice broke.
The old woman looked devastated.
"She was murdered."
The silence afterward felt endless.
Heavy.
Crushing.
Unbearable.
Then another voice echoed from above.
Cold.
Calm.
Terrifying.
"Found them."
Everyone froze.
The words drifted down the staircase like poison.
Slow footsteps followed.
Elegant footsteps.
Familiar footsteps.
Verónica.
Coming down.
One step at a time.
Clara's heart hammered.
Miguel stepped protectively in front of her.
Leonor gripped the bars.
And from the darkness above, Verónica's voice floated downward.
Smooth as silk.
Sharp as a knife.
"You should have left the basement alone."
The footsteps continued.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Then Verónica appeared at the top of the stairs.
Perfectly dressed.
Perfectly composed.
Perfectly terrifying.
Several security guards stood behind her.
Her smile widened.
"You know..."
She looked directly at Clara.
"...you remind me so much of your mother."
The cellar fell silent.
Because suddenly everyone understood.
Verónica knew exactly who Clara was.
And worse—
She knew what happened to Isabel Jiménez.
The truth Clara had searched for her entire life was standing at the top of the stairs.
Smiling.
And for the first time since entering the mansion—
Clara realized she wasn't just fighting to save Leonor anymore.
She was about to uncover her own past.
And Verónica was willing to kill to keep it buried.
